By the Blood of the Elder One
by Eureka234
Summary: The Herald and Dorian may have been forced into the prison cells in the dark future of Dragon 9:42, but what happened during the time they were missing? The part we didn't see from the "In Hushed Whispers" quest.
1. Prologue

_Authors notes:_ I haven't seen any stories about this so far, sorry if I missed them! Either way, here's my version. Hope you like it. Please constructively review. Also, I don't own any of the characters or story - it's all thanks to Bioware.

Thank you to Steve and Sophia from the DA Fanfiction Writer's Group for feedback.

* * *

9:41 Dragon

Varric's memory was not the shabbiest of places. It was superior to anyone else is in the Inquisition, certainly better than Hightown merchants back home. He remembered details in bright flurries of colour, more so if the material was interesting. It had been this way ever since he'd started documenting his various adventures for coin. With motivation like that, a quill meeting parchment had a price - headaches, usually.

Unfortunately, despite his keen attention to detail, when it came to discussions about the fate of the world Varric's focus liked to wander. It didn't occur deliberately. He always tried to keep an open mind so he could retell any given tale with the most consideration his vocabulary would allow, but it was different now. Any mention of destiny sent alarm bells roaring.

_It smells like slime, like the Docks in Kirkwall,_ was his first thought.

_What's the humming?_ was his second.

His pounding temples prevented thought. His mind was slow and onerous –like trying to squeeze through a path when one were a touch too big.

He sat up.

When his vision levelled, the dwarf realized he was in a lot of shit, perhaps the highest pile of excrement in his life.

Varric's worst enemy was here, the red lyrium. His cell had shards poking through the right corner of the cement, as though they'd decided to create a fortress of red crystal.

_That explains the humming._

Its light gave the stony walls an eerie glow, but the air was thick and cold, like winter dawn, the same murky bluish green as the rest of the cell.

_If the Herald had gotten into this mess, I bet she could slip right through the bars,_ he thought sorely.

Varric rubbed his head and wiped his face. Black mud came off with it. He didn't want to know how he looked. If it was anything like the smell of the cell, he would much rather drown himself in the water pouring from the other side of the bars.

_Ok, I'm imprisoned,_ he thought, racking his brain. _At least it wasn't because I was drunk! I need to chase up that bet with Sera later._

He gave a small smile, but his sense of personal accomplishment was short lived. When would 'later' be?

He looked down, seeing only his underclothes, damp and covered in the black, coarse mud. Varric doubted he would ever feel clean again. Bianca was still with him, but –his eyes narrowed- her arrows had been removed.

_What cruel bastard stripped Bianca against her will?_ Varric thought.

He patted his outfit and removed a small notebook. It was his garbage bin for all thoughts – good and bad. His mind was as mucky as the cell and he needed to make sense of it. There was no better time to write.

He opened to the first empty page and found his trusty small ink bottle in one of his other pockets. If he was stuck here indefinitely, he could use the mud when the ink dried up.

_My publisher would have fun with that,_ Varric thought.

Trying to ignore the rumble of his stomach, the prisoner pursued to recollect how he had got here.

_Dear would-be reader,_

_If you exist. I hope you do._

_Crap, I've barely even started and I already know this story is going to end up in the waste paper basket, but this is how it started... with a magister in red, sitting in a chair._

_No need to get too excited, this isn't that kind of story. Would that make it better? Maybe if the fate of everybody in Thedas wasn't at stake._

_Imagine a disturbed man pushing sixty in a stupid red outfit, in front of a fire, staring at you with evil in his eyes. The 'you are going to lose' sort of face... Named Alexius. A Tevinter who has us surrounded with mages in Redcliffe Castle... who want to kill us._

_Yeah, now you're getting it._

_I thought we had the upper hand at first, especially when the famous Herald of Andraste said, "Your men are dead, Alexius."_

_They were dead, a load of Venatori on the floor around the room._

_But Alexius wasn't dead. He walked forward and held out his palm, the way the Herald sometimes did, only he doesn't give people hope with the action, but nausea. Even if the magic swirled green._

_"You were a mistake," the magister said, "You should have never existed."_

_"No!" The Tevinter yelled._

_I shut my eyes from either the green light... or was it the scary sounds of magic flying across the room, or, Andraste's tits, the explosion?_

_I think I opened them again at the wrong time, because when I did the Inquisitor's new Tevinter ally and Trevelyan were gone._

_Cassandra gaped at the scene from the stairs._

_"What did you do to our Herald?!" she growled, rushing forward with her sword, eyes flashing precariously. I tried to catch up, but let's face it, the Seeker had always been faster than me. "Where did she go? You must explain!"_

_Chuckles, an apostate, expelled some needed words of wisdom, "We must not be rash, Cassandra. We have no way of concluding what just occurred, though I do agree. I doubt it was a generous donation."_

_I laugh about it now, but I didn't then._

_Grand Enchanter Fiona and I catch eyes. No one, not even the creepy man's son Felix, had any fucking idea what to do._

_Cassandra thrust her sword to Alexius's neck, feet apart now, peering cautiously at the glowing sparks from his palm, but her voice did not reflect it._

_"Shut up!" she snarled. "I will rip that man from his limbs!"_

_"If you will not stand down, I will protect you." Solas said._

_"Start talking, if you want to make yourself look good before you die!" I advised, my fingers lingering on Bianca's trigger. I hesitated though. I don't know why._

_The beginnings of a Barrier began to form around the Seeker, but it was too late. Alexius' was quick. He swiped his hand down and Cassandra was propelled back with a blast of invisible energy._

_I fired some arrows as Alexius laughed. A burst of light filled the room and I can't remember anything else, except the magisters voice._

_"I've got what I wanted." Alexius finished, "Now you will understand the Elder One's arrangement for our world without an inkling of doubt. Goodbye, Inquisition."_

_Everything disappeared until just now when I woke up in a prison._

_If you are not groaning already I'm going to make you growl and fidget some more. This isn't going to be a happy story. I'm going to spoil you a little. I have too much evidence under my nails to hazard a guess that this is the sort of tragedy where everybody dies at the end._

_Before you get too sad and start a drunken wallow about how you don't want to read a story that fucking terrible, let me try lighten the mood. This probably won't change your mind, but I hope this is NOT the book where everybody meets a horrible death that makes you want to cry to your mother and not trust your own decisions for two weeks…._

_But the story where you're still happy you read about their lives until their last breaths._

_Before I go any further, this Elder One should have been named The Shitstorm One._

_Andraste's ass. I don't want to die._


	2. Retreat

Cullen growled and swept a marker off the War Table. "One minute the Herald and Dorian were there, the next? It was like they'd never stepped foot inside. I can't accept or so much believe we were outnumbered- overwhelmed. Whichever it is, I- I thought… it was a narrow escape, yes. Perhaps I became fearful and retreated prematurely. The Maker is not on our side tonight."

This was about the fifth time this outburst had happened, but it had always been around different people, so the number could be closer to twenty. Josephine's sleek voice did little to calm him.

"Commander, I understand your frustrations. I share them. The Herald will be gravely missed, but we must keep to the agenda. If we rescind an alliance, it makes the Inquisition…"

Cullen sighed. "I apologize for my heedless outrage, Ambassador. I am not thinking with the transparency the Inquisition deserves."

The room wasn't the same without the Herald or Cassandra to offer their input. With only Josephine and Leliana present, it felt like they were still waiting for members. Their council was incomplete, the meeting unjustified. No accumulation of minutes staring at maps was going to solve his dilemma, and yet he couldn't pull away.

"It has been a difficult night," Leliana agreed, "Pardon me for intruding, Commander, but perhaps this is something better left until morning. Would you like to rest our negotiating here?"

"No," Cullen breathed. He couldn't give in. He would endure the harsh light of the room even if it worsened his headache, "Our soldiers and allies will want instruction. We cannot wait."

Mud and snow still clung to his armour and his legs ached from balancing on a horse so fixedly. He would have cramps tonight, terrible ones. The residual sharp sting from frost on his face only joined his self-enmity.

Josephine sat down. "It is my belief that Enchanter Vivienne should lead the mages, as a temporary precaution, of course. Was it determined with certainty that Lady Tevelyan is dead? Even if that is the truth of the matter, I do not think we should make an announcement yet," she decided, "Could you send some of your assassins to the Castle, Leliana?"

"We are uncertain of the danger. It would be foolish to act rashly," Leliana quipped.

Cullen tilted his eyes to the ceiling, as though the Maker was positioned above Haven. If only He was.

Leliana usually was not concerned for vulnerability, but with the Herald no longer present morale was low.

The Commander didn't blame her. "I have no doubt Varric, Fiona, Cassandra and Solas are facing some horrifying torture. If we are going to leave them to fend for themselves, we must not dither for long."

"Risk is ordained at every turn, more so than previous times," the Antivan rationalized, crossing one ankle over the other. "Pressure of such magnitude should not impede our decision, Commander."

"What shall we do of the Breach?" Leliana demanded. "Is…"

She fell silent and everyone knew why. The Herald had been assurance the Breach could be closed. To their knowledge, young Evelyn Trevleyan was the only one able close the rifts. The emerald reflection on the walls and table seemed suddenly threatening.

"They are not the allies I would have approached, but we ought to ask the mages to attempt closing a smaller rift. It may not be possible," Cullen said, "I speculate whether the Templars power will be enough given the outcome of this last assignment, but it is worth the strain regardless of the outcome. If we fail I fear for more than Haven, but all of Thedas. If we submit to our enemy, I dread more intensely."

"I can see if they know anything. The mages are more likely to speak to me than a Templar abettor," Leliana proposed, "More importantly than that, Commander: Shall you take over as leader? The people of Haven will be restless, but it will provide some comfort to have a source of instruction."

"You are much better suited since your specialty lies in warfare," Josephine agreed. "It would be optimal to consider the proposal, of course, when we… are not so exhausted."

Cullen groaned. He needed more than a drink, but a nightmare free sleep, although this wasn't going to happen while he was half consumed by the effects of weaning off lyrium. If he was going to assume a larger role in the Inquisition, and half their most critical members were unaccounted for, would he need to start taking it again?

Action was necessary, his guidance was crucial, and he had to leave his personal woes at the door.

"I will do what you ask of me," he said finally. "I may not be in the finest frame of mind, but you are right. More than ever we need strength of character, so I will sacrifice my last scraps of normality for the sake of our cause."

"Thank you, Commander. We will direct further inquiries to you," Josephine gave a smile, and for a moment Cullen mistook her expression for lively. "I will draft a few letters before retiring- not too many, I hope. I think it is only fair to let you go now at last?"

"It would be much appreciated, Ambassador. I need repose myself. I am sorry if I seemed impetuous," Cullen said warily, stretching his arms, "There is much to do, and not nearly enough waking hours to do it."

"I do try to understand, Commander, and I think I achieve it most of the time," Josephine said. Her smile became shrewd.

The Commander didn't know what to say, so he nodded instead, a faint smile hanging on his lip.

He strode toward the door, feeling the relief of an ending work hours with every passing flicker of candlelight.

Still in a mild state of tension, he remembered the mystical silence, the trotting of hooves, the yelling as Redcliffe was evacuated. It haunted him like a waking nightmare.

As the Commander exit the room, greeted by that long corridor, he felt a tap between his shoulder blades. It became clear who it was by the idiosyncratic accent.

"Goodnight Cullen," Leliana said quietly, "If I can express compassion, I apologize for Trevelyan. She seemed taken with you from the few moments I saw you speaking."

Cullen smiled weakly, "She was congenial. She appeared an enthralling young lady." He sighed. "Alas, it does nothing to dwell on it now. I cannot afford such luxuries as grief. I pray you sleep well. I _do_ appreciate your condolence, Leliana, despite my shameful mood. We will need companionship more than ever. Even though I…never mind."

The shadows cast harsh shapes on the walls and Cullen didn't think he could feel more jaded than he already was. He felt broken and staggered, like half his armour had suddenly vanished and he was nothing more than an unarmed man. There was something dismal about the joyous Evelyn being gone. It was not simply for her important role in meetings, or even the comfort of a friend.

_Why didn't I ask for more time… with her? _He thought.

Cullen pulled his eyes away from Leliana's prying ones with disdain.

* * *

"Andraste's flaming sword," Varric breathed. He was tempted to drop his notes on the ground, but he stuffed the little book back in his pocket. This time he wasn't surrounded by nice company, pretty trees and clear skies, only darkness, stone, metal and a horrible smell.

His head could not take anything more without food. His stomach felt like it had decided eating itself was a good solution to this problem.

"If Alexius wanted to kill me, he would have just done that," he reasoned, "It doesn't make sense that he'd –"

"One of them is talking… sounds like he makes sense, too," he heard a voice say.

Varric stared at the bars, at the plates of metal on the wall furthest away, but the guards were not immediately in view.

"Go check on him," commanded a second guard with a much deeper voice.

"Do you give prisoner's food or has that gone out of fashion?" Varric called.

At first the footsteps sounded like they were sloshing through a river, then it echoed off the stony ground, louder and louder. He saw the metal boots first, and then the man bent down.

He was human, or so he though, covered in a silver triangular helmet that had lots of tiny holes in it. It looked more than odd, even comical, but now was not the time to laugh. That was the armour of a Venatori. This must be the Redcliffe Prisons.

Varric saw a glitter of green eyes from behind one of the tiny holes.

"You're hungry, then?" Green Eyes said.

The dwarf didn't answer, but just nodded. He didn't want to insult the guard's intelligence without arrows at his disposal.

The Venatori chuckled. "No food until the end of the day. It is your reward for being held captive here."

Varric's forehead hurt with the strain to focus. "I'm probably going to die _before_ the end of the day, if that's even the time."

Green Eyes laughed and shook his head, the smooth voice reverberating.

"The red lyrium is edible," the guard said, finally, "Apart from that I can offer sewer water?"

Green Eyes chuckled.

Varric managed to somehow trip over while crawling and grasped onto one of the bars, "I'm not eating that red shit," he growled, "I'll _die_ before that happens. Just watch me. I'll starve!"

"Have it your way," Green Eyes smiled, standing. Varric watched his stupid armour with hatred. "I think you would be surprised, dwarf. People commit monstrosities when they still retain a will to live. I'll let Alexius know to pick up your body later."

The storyteller groaned. "I can offer a good story in exchange for decent food?"

Green Eyes shook his head. "My wife gives me plenty of those. I assure you they'd be far more worthy of my time. Besides if I did put in extra effort for you, the chef would have to prepare more. That would cost more. That would mean I'd have to ask _more_ of what my position requires. Can you imagine the dispute that would arise?"

Varric banged Bianca against the bars. "Come on!"

Green Eyes kicked the steel back. "I can play the noise game too" he threatened, "No, dwarf. Although I will make sure your crossbow gets taken off you, if you do that again"

_No!_

The fear must have shown in Varric's eyes, or his arms, as he held Bianca close to him. "You can't make me eat that shit!" he yelled, "I'm sure you must _need_ me for something, right? You can't _really_ want me dead!"

Green Eyes's only identifiable feature was hidden as he was standing side on. "The Elder One instructs to treat you as the other prisoners – barely alive. If you die, we will simply find more hosts. It is not the deplorable fatality you imagine."

_Host?_ Varric thought, _what does that mean?_

"But I was with the Herald!" he protested, "She must make me _slightly_ more relevant!"

"You are mistaken," Green Eyes said, "Your Herald of Andraste is dead. You mean nothing to the Elder One now."

"She isn't dead!" Varric yelled, but his voice croaked as he said it, "Unless your Elder One was in the room when shit went crazy, no one can be sure."

"Is that what you tell yourself?" The guard chuckled. "Lord Alexius was instructed to kill her. She is no longer here, therefore she is dead. She isn't hiding behind a door somewhere. We check constantly- when we're on duty anyway. Where do you topside dwarfs get your logic?"

The guard returned to his post.

"He's still fighting," Deep Voice rumbled.

It wasn't as comforting to hear a human voice as Varric thought.

"He won't take long. He's already unable to stand up."

Deep Voice laughed with his co-worker. Varric sat against the wall that didn't have red lyrium in the corner. These Venatori just had him in a box. It wasn't a big deal.

_Trevelyan can't be dead_, he thought, getting more panicked by the second, _She's like Hawke, she just has a way of surviving impossible odds, for no reason, even if it doesn't make sense._

Hopefully the Seeker, Chuckles and Fiona were in cells like him. Perhaps there was a chance they could escape if they were clever enough.

Varric shivered and lay down. The faint glow of red could still be seen behind his shut eyelids. A small amount of warmth radiated from it as well. The humming was more a pain in the ass than the cold floor. He was starving so much, they might as well name The Hanged Man after him now: The Hanged Tethras Dwarf that Didn't Give Into Red Lyrium.

_No, the title is too long,_ he thought. Still, he wouldn't let himself succumb to insanity like his brother. He was better than that.

He would just thin to his bones and then… not die? Guilt burned larger holes in his stomach.

"The Herald of Andraste can't be dead," Varric said it out loud, but nearer to sleep another truth surfaced.

_Yes, she could._


	3. Plans

"Ambassador."

"Yes, Commander?"

Cullen did not usually find himself going into Josephine's office. He knew her door like the back of his hand but being inside made him wonder if he'd entered entirely different premises.

Instead, he tried to pretend he wasn't surprised and had entered the room a hundred times… like Evelyn might have.

"I assume Leliana informed you on our stance on the Breach and the mages," Cullen began slowly.

"No, Commander," Josephine said, "She assured me it would be more entertaining to hear it from you,"

Cullen felt tempted to kick something, but instead he cleared his throat. "I'm the one who makes Leliana the center of attention, not the other way around. What do you need to know?"

"For once I did not welcome her antics, Commander," Josephine said, still writing a paper, "I do not know what occurred, so forgive me, but you will have to start from the beginning,"

"I see," the Commander felt slightly unnerved, "G-Good job, Ambassador."

"Thank you, Commander."

They exchanged a look of mutual understanding and respect that made Cullen feel oddly powerful.

He couldn't fathom to think of himself as leader of the entire Inquisition, so he pretended to retain his duties before Trevelyan disappeared.

He had moved the sparing place for his soldiers half a block over, so he wouldn't be reminded of the Herald's loss, their fleeting conversations or her devilish smile every time he yelled 'Block', 'Parry' or 'Rotate with your whole body, not your arms!'. It had the unexpected positive of placing his initiates under some shade.

"The lamentable best a hefty band of mages can do is make rifts lie dormant for a time, although they were unable to tell me how long," Cullen said, slightly annoyed, "As I suspected, they cannot close them. If we wanted to make them lie dormant forever we'd need an impossible amount of rotating volunteers. Not a viable option, in any case."

"Dormant is not ideal, but it is preferable to absolute no effect," Josephine said, "I presume that it will slow down any turmoil the Elder One hopes to cause?"

"Yes," Cullen said grimly, "Slow down but not stop, Josephine. We may be able to beat The Elder One in wits but not forces alone. We must do what we can, however. A fight that ends in defeat is far more honourable than bowing down to the enemy… though, Maker preserve me, I do not want to say it out loud."

"What is it?"

"I…" Cullen tried to remove all uncertainty from his voice, "…fear for Thedas, perhaps more than I should, or even be allowed to, but I am unable to shake it. Fereldan… even Orlais worries me. Forgive me." He sat down and put his face in his hands. "You would be much better at this position than I, Ambassador. Your presence is far more comforting."

"I assure you that would not be the case. Our circumstances may prove laborious but that does not mean an endeavour would be meaningless." She lifted her quill and reread her paper. "Which reminds me, do you remain interested in a Templar alliance? I do not know if the situation has changed, but Leliana and I coerced a number of royal Houses of Orlais. It may sway Lord Seeker Lucius-"

"If he hasn't gone mad like the rest of us," Cullen said, exhausted. "Yes Josephine, even if they cannot add anything to our situation, I refuse to sit here and pretend life is fine as it is. We need as many allies as we can. I can only surmise what this Elder One wants to do next. Maybe the Templars know something we don't."

"This was decided before Lady Trevelyan disappeared, Commander," Josephine remained sturdy and calm in her demeanour, "Therinfal Redoubt was the last we heard from the Templars. If there is any chance of assembling new coalition it is worth investigating the area."

"Blessed Andraste, I hope you are right, Josephine," he said. "I will take my soldiers. Can you instruct Leliana to prepare the mages for making the Breach dormant? If we can delay its power for a few days, a week, or a month… we must take what we can, and not falter in face of the wicked."

"Yes, Commander. Certainly."

"Good. We will leave at the next available opportunity- hopefully tonight at the latest."

It was a fight they had a high chance of losing, but Cullen was going to joust until his last breath.

He stood up and turned to walk out the door.

"C-Cullen?" Josephine trilled.

For a moment, Cullen heard the same doubt that radiated in his tone throughout this entire conversation. As she did to him, friend to friend, the man would return it with kindness.

"Yes, Ambassador?"

The Antivan's eyes shone with sadness, a grief that she had been trying to hide until now, but it disappeared quickly as she returned to her notes.

"Ride safely," she said.

"Thank you."

Cullen left very proud to have Josephine as his Ambassador.

* * *

Deep Voice came past to check on Varric after he'd finished going over the memories for a third time. The dwarf had no way to tell how long it had been. He dropped his quill, his fingers aching.

"I have good news," Deep Voice grumbled. "You're lucky the Elder One is so generous. He does want you living and breathing."

Varric didn't answer for a second. "I'm listening."

The guard leaned on the bars, staring Varric down. "I've been ordered to let you interact with one of your slimy friends for an hour once every two days."

"How does that keep me alive?" Varric asked.

"It keeps your will to live flickering. Only just," Deep Voice said grimly, "Too many hostages go insane and end themselves within a month or so… some sooner._ I _don't want to talk to you for an hour every two days. You see… he is not so cruel. The Elder One has everyone's best interests at heart."

_Your perception of best interests isn't what I would call sane,_ Varric thought. If anything, the Elder One probably agreed to this because he didn't want the guards quitting their jobs.

Maybe this Elder One wasn't the same as the cliché villain he suspected.

"How long has it been?" the dwarf wondered.

Deep Voice gave a throaty chuckle."Its 6am. I've only just started shift. The nightmare rotation finished not too long ago."

"How many guards work here?" Varric asked, eager to keep the conversation going.

The Venatori kicked the bars. "Enough." he grunted, "I will come get you when it is time to speak to-"

"Don't you get bored crazy here too?" Varric demanded, "I'll keep talking. I'm useless as shit here but that's one thing I am good at."

"Entertain yourself. Everyone else does."

"Fine. If you continue to hate your job from how boring it is, that's your own fault." Varric mumbled. "Don't go crying to the Elder One that I didn't offer. I'm nice like that."

Deep Voice growled and Varric flinched. The guard got down on his knees and spat in an undertone, "I _love_ my job," he snarled, "It means I can watch shits like you meet their extinction. I hate dwarves. I hate elves. I love watching how misery destroys people. I like to watch pawns die. I don't even have to do anything."

When the man left, Varric started to sing an old bar song in a loud voice, hoping to get on Deep Voice's nerves, but there was no reaction. The dwarf got bored of it after a while.

When one of the guards returned, Varric was lying on the ground with his eyes closed. It felt like the red lyrium was a person, muttering things to him in an undertone – but like an annoying drinking buddy, Varric didn't register what it was.

The gates opened. Varric was too tired to move. There was a whimper as someone fell to the ground beside him and the door was locked again.

_Let it be over,_ he thought, ashamed he was thinking this at day 2.

"V-V-Varric?" came a hushed whisper. The woman had an accent.

Bewildered, Varric rolled over.

"S-Seeker?" he breathed. It felt strange to talk with his normal voice, without having to hold back.

Cassandra looked awful. Her clothes were covered in mud, make-up all but gone. Her eyes were the worst, sunken, their whites now pink. Her skin, which was usually olive, looked slightly green. Like him, she was wearing very little and did not have weapons.

They usually hated each other, but this was all forgotten in a moment of solidarity.

"A-are you alright?" he stuttered, "Is your cell as awful as mine?"

"Mine is far worse, Varric," Cassandra said slowly, "There is the red lyrium all over the walls. I wish I had something more to look at, even if it was you."

"I'm flattered," Varric said, and for once he wasn't lying, "Does it piss you off like it does to me? I can't stand it already, and to think we have to say this for Andraste knows how long."

"Not entirely," Cassandra said with a small smile, "Being a Seeker does not make me respond to red lyrium in the same way you do. I think I will be able to fool the guards for a time."

"Keep it that way, Cassandra." Varric was surprised to see himself using her real name, "If we give up, we're dead."

"We are not in an inspired position," she stated, "We have no plan, no means of escaping. I have thought of everything, more than once. Have you devised a brilliant plan in your wake, or should I prepare for disappointment?"

"I'm not as clever as you are. You know that." Varric admitted, "Chuckles has got to know something, or Fiona. They're both mages, the guards can't take their magic from them. Hold on. We'll just have to come up with a plan without being in a group."

Cassandra looked very solemn, but she smiled weakly.

"You are very brave. Perhaps foolish," she admitted, and Varric was taken aback by the flattery, "You must stay away from the lyrium as long as possible. Our Herald may be dead, but…"

"Do you really believe that, Seeker?" Varric asked hurriedly, "Really? I mean, after everything, given they're our sworn enemies, don't you think they're only trying to make us depressed and lifeless?"

He felt the hour would be over in ten minutes. Time liked to play tricks on him. Cassandra simply stared at him.

"We have no other choice. The Maker is not on our side, Varric. He has given us wickedness for now. We cannot beat Him by simply wishing for implausible solutions like children. We must work with what we are given. The Herald is not part of that plan, as much as I prayed she was."

"Yeah, I get it. Alive or not… we're still kind of screwed." Varric sighed. Their situation was looking grimmer by the second. "How have you been keeping busy?"

Cassandra shrugged. "I do not know at times. Like my vigil, I disconnect from my emotions and thought. I pretend I am with my family. I only wish I had more positive experiences to draw upon."

"You've got to have something more to distract yourself," Varric pleaded "Whatever you do– _anything_ else, Seeker."

"You do not need to sound so desperate," The Seeker groused, and the familiar spite entered her tone, "I sing old Chantry hymns, I try to spar without a sword. There is not much to do. I attempt to sleep, but it is difficult. The floor is not what I'm used to."

"Think about the second day," Varric commanded, as a reminder to himself as well, "Think about how we can get out of here –what you will do when we do get out."

Cassandra looked sad. "How long can we wonder over these thoughts? The more time passes the temptation to consume the red sin inflates."

"Have you eaten any yet?" Varric said loudly. He grabbed Cassandra's shoulder. "Please _lie to me_ if you have."

Cassandra's eyebrows furrowed. She looked angry. "I have not. Do not strain yourself, Varric. You are more likely to give in to it than I."

"We'll have to see about that, won't we?" Varric somehow managed a grin, "I'll bet you in coin. When I get my coin back, that is. If we do. Shit."

"I will do what I must to stay alive," the woman said firmly, "If I need to eat it, that is what I will do – but my Seeker training demanded the same abstinence. It is not impossible for me to resist. I assume my body and mind will take longer to collapse under its corruption."

"If that's what you call it…" Varric said simply.

They were silent. Cassandra looked at the ground. It struck him that Varric had never shared much of a rapport with her.

"Can you tell me about life as a Seeker? The less traumatizing memories," the dwarf said slowly, "I think we'll need lots of storytelling to get by."

Cassandra simply nodded. "For once, I do not disagree with you."

He had been right – their talk didn't feel like an hour, but what felt like the right space of time anymore? At least he was one hour closer to food. He was starving again.


	4. Traveling

When Varric exit the small cubical, he was glad he was dehydrated. There was nothing worse than needing frequent toilet breaks without the means.

Painfully tight chains were returned around Varric's wrist. He cringed. Green Eyes led him back through the water laden tunnels. It was tiresome to put one foot in front of the other.

"What's your name, dwarf? You don't seem unhinged, compared to the others," Green Eyes said.

"Varric Tethras," he said, feeling less achy, "What about you?"

"Royle Berkley, not that it matters to you."

"Green Eyes sounds better anyway."

"My eyes aren't green," Royle said, with a hint of irritation, "They're blue. You just can't tell because of the light. This place always makes them look that way."

"My lover had blue eyes," Varric said sadly. He had no idea why he was saying this. He needed to say _something_, and that was the first thing that came to mind. "She's beautiful, but she's married. I want to be able to write to her, but I bet I can't."

"Alexius only takes the mail that's specifically given to him. The rest go in the fire," Royle said.

"Your Elder One is letting me talk to my friends. That is a bigger risk than mail?"

Royle hit Varric on the back. "You're assuming your paramour knows where you are."

Varric didn't answer. He secretly hoped he could send the Inquisition something and they'd forward it to Bianca or…. just _something_ would change. But he was extremely doubtful that he'd be allowed to send sensitive information anywhere. It was lonely putting this together.

They reached the cells and Royle rummaged for the keys in his pocket. "What are you doing pining over a wed woman, anyhow?"

"That's not a story I'm willing to tell."

Who knew what time it was when the Venatori left.

Varric sat down frustrated. He envisioned dying of boredom long before the lyrium poisoned him.

If the shards made his imagination stronger, wouldn't that mean his mental means of escape would provide more entertainment than it usually did?

Hating himself for even considering the ide, paranoid someone would see him even though there was no one; Varric unbuckled his trousers.

_Anything_ to avoid the red stuff...

* * *

The food was the same as yesterday – bread with a drumstick. Varric didn't mind. A rat hadn't gotten to it first so he messily ate it, despite a stiffened wrist. Screw manners. Screw everything.

Royle appeared sometime later. "My last job before I go off duty. By the Blood of the Elder One, help me." The words indicated annoyance, but the guard sounded happy, "12 hours are killer, but I'm saving up for a book series on potion making."

"I'm an author," Varric said, "Did you ever read _Hard in Hightown_?"

"Crime rubbish," Royle scoffed, "I prefer to expand my knowledge then dabble in fiction."

_Stuck up asshole_, the dwarf thought, _Fiction is one of the best reasons to read._

The same thing happened again. Varric's wrists were wrapped in chains, and they left, going in the same direction as the garderobe.

"I had an argument with Ian over who gets to bathe your lady accomplice. He wanted to have his way with her," Royle ranted.

Varric's heart jumped. "Meaning your friend _likes_ to do that to helpless, mud covered prisoners?"

The Venatori shrugged. "I'm not one to judge."

_That's exactly information worth judging someone for. _

Surely, Cassandra being manhandled wouldn't end well. She was a Seeker and had powers of her own… but would she be strong enough to fight?

"That's messy… and plain horrifying," Varric responded.

Royle laughed. "That's probably the least repulsive job here. Try to mine red lyrium out of someone's vomit, or worse, diarrhoea."

They had made it to the showers. Royle pushed Varric inside, but the dwarf was too busy trying not to linger on that mental image to pay much attention. He suddenly wondered how foul the water was they were standing in.

The guard unravelled Varric's cuffs. "In you go."

"Basically the cell is the only place I get privacy?" Varric inquired.

"No, Varric." It felt weird to have Royle call him by name. "There's the toilet too."

"I tell the jokes around here," Varric warned, but he had never been less like his funny self, "Whatever, I'll be a well behaved lackey so you can go off duty and run away to your lucky wife."

Royle followed, making the chain longer. They were two meters away. Varric hesitated. There were two shower heads with a drain beneath them. A single aquamarine bath lay beyond it. Nothing was there to separate each section. Varric walked forward and turned one of the handles. Cold water spurred out of it. After a minute, it turned to lukewarm. The guard had his back to the dwarf. It didn't seem like the water was going to get any hotter.

"Your prisoners don't get change of clothes, I'm guessing?" Varric said slowly.

Royle chuckled. "Not a chance."

"The Elder One may pay you well," Varric began. He stepped under the shower in his clothes "but to me he's just a bastard with too many ideas in his head."

The storyteller sighed as the not-hot-enough water washed off the dirt, mud and other unidentifiable stains. A cockroach was sitting on the disintegrating bar of soap. Annoyed, Varric flicked off the bug. It had been glowing red.

He was going to freeze tonight. What other choice was there?

The water turned cold. Varric shivered.

_This is shit,_ he thought, but he didn't want to say it out loud. Was anyone from the Inquisition going to try save them?

"Did the womanizer win the argument?" Varric asked, returning the conversation to Cassandra again.

The Venatori's tone was even. "He did."

_Not the Seeker,_ Varric thought despairingly, but he tried not to linger on it. "Your prisoners are here so you can mine lyrium. Is that the idea?"

When certain Royle wouldn't turn around, he pulled off his clothes one by one and let them fall to the ground.

"The lady mage figured it out before you did." Royle said grimly "I had to rip a shard from her teeth not too long ago."

_T__hat's gotta hurt, _Varric thought. "Why not just take it from the walls?"

Royle still didn't turn around. "The walls are not living. The lyrium cannot thrive off it. If we removed it from the wall, it would not respawn."

"You mean that shit is going to _regrow_ in Fiona's teeth?!" Varric exclaimed.

Royle snickered. "More than her teeth, but that's why we patrol. We mine it as it grows. If we catch it early, it stops internal damage."

"B-but if she's eating it…" the dwarf said shakily.

"We can repair _most_ of the damage. I may not look it, but I studied blood magic so I could get this position. Ian already knew blood magic-"

"You're sick," Varric breathed, "How – no, why by Andraste's ass did a musician marry you?"

Royle ignored the question. "We use the blood from the damage to heal. It is a self-destructive method, but it works better than conventional healing methods, in this case. It keeps the prisoners weak. For example, there was this sod we had in a few weeks ago – he had the lyrium growing up his oesophagus down to his intestines. Every day I helped clear it out. Hard work, but interesting... He was able to live, just in a lot of pain. It is torture to have lyrium pulled up through your mouth. He screamed every time. It creates more to repair." He paused. "Humans are a lot better vessels than animals. They are bigger, they can create more. He killed himself by impaling his wrists with the lyrium…"

"Well, great, I thought red lyrium by itself was bad enough. Now I have to deal with this crap." Varric shivered more. "The old Knight Commander of Kirkwall turned into a statue of the stuff – how does that work?"

"Ehh…" the Venatori shrugged, like he either didn't know or couldn't care less, "Something about the crystals is different to other forms of lyrium, especially the ones down here."

"Yeah, right. I'll pretend I understand even if I don't. How do _you_ survive the stuff?"

"I am paid well. It is merely part of the job. I protect myself with powerful shields whenever I work. The red lyirum does not affect me. It is all part of the Elder One's plan."

Varric stopped talking to Royle. The more he found out, the more he hated him. Whatever this Shitstorm One was planning he was nasty shit, and needed to die without question.

_Just think of the second day_, the dwarf reminded himself. He hoped it would be enough to get him through.


	5. Demons

Obscene screeching filled his ears.

"Commander, dear, engaging in combat with the demons may be the wiser decision when they are so numerous," Vivienne called from a few horses back.

Cullen didn't need the advice. The pain in his ears was enough indication. To his left, a flurry of Lesser terrors were hurrying toward them with loud thumps of claws and high pitched roars.

The mixture of the green grass, white wash from the Breach, and brightness from the rift made their surroundings appear over saturated and completely eliminated shadows from their faces.

A soldier, possibly Lambert, swore in surprise.

"Shit!" he uttered. Yes, it was Lambert. "My horse!"

"That's one nasty bruise. You better get it looked at!" Sera called, as a whoosh of an arrow pierced the darkness. "Oh wait, there's too much shite brightness to see anything!"

Another screech.

"What should I tell them, ser?" asked Rylen from near him.

"Vivienne!" Cullen shouted through the crowd.

As a burst of magic surged past, he swerved awkwardly to avoid a monster who pounced at his horse's legs.

The Iron Bull and Sera had accompanied them as back up, and Cullen wasn't sure they were the best company. Their conversations were often unorthodox and disturbing, despite their usefulness in combat.

"The battlefield is almost in our favour, darling," the mage responded, "through of no help of yours. I will be immensely disappointed to experience anything less than your highest gratitude when the chaos subsides."

The Commander ignored her subtle yet not-so-subtle insult. This was no time to start an argument.

The cracking of ice spells burst through the darkness.

"Maker bless you, dear lady," Lambert croaked.

By the lack of screaming, it seemed evident that the recruit had resumed his position on his horse. Some yelling and clanging distorted his team's voices. They had brought shields into it, no doubt.

Cullen felt a vein pulse in his temple. The rift helped them know where they were going in more vivid detail, but that was the extent of the improvement.

"Whoo! I've always wanted to shoot these brutes from on a horse!" Sera cried happily.

The fast pinning of her arrows nearly matched the trotting of hooves.

"I'd throw my axe if you'd let me, boss," The Iron Bull said.

Cullen chuckled. "No need for that, Bull- not tonight, in any case."

The Commander whacked the persistent monster with his sword.

"Grovel away from our eyes, demons!"

"I know! 'Grovel at my feet, demons!' That would be amazing. I'd pay for it, yeah?" Sera chuckled, continuing conversation with the Bull.

Cullen cringed as he impaled the enemy and sludge burst over his legs. He urged his horse to go faster than it already was. The air gushing in his ears was incommodious, so the demand would be no easy task. The animal neighed in protest.

"We cannot stop!" Cullen informed Rylen. "We should be able to exceed them. They can't follow us forever."

"Head to the back, Enchantress!" Rylen ordered.

"You always leave mages to fend for themselves. It's not impressive, my dears," Vivienne said, an air of superiority in her tone. "I suppose the Templars would rather have my head on a pike. It is hardly a joke, Commander."

Cullen twisted his neck to make up for not being in a position where he could roll his eyes. Vivienne was no longer audible. He kicked the Lesser Terror, and it was finally brought to the ground. He was free.

His weapon resumed its normal resting place.

"How is everyone?"

Cullen turned backward to assess the situation. The team was no longer in straight lines, but no one had fallen. The monsters were falling behind. Most of them had been obliterated. Only two remained, and they seemed badly injured. The team looked drained.

"Surviving," Lambert grumbled.

"Well done." Cullen encouraged with a smile.

"When should we make camp, Cullen?" Rylen asked. "The younglings won't last for too much longer!"

"On the outskirts of the Brecilian forest," Cullen informed, "There is no reason to stop unless someone is about to fall off a horse. We will keep going, Knight Captain."

By the exasperated sigh, it was obvious Rylen wasn't happy about this. Cullen's heartbeat returned to normal as the immediate danger passed, but his knees were aching more than ever.

"This is why you were made Commander," he said disgruntled. "You make the painful choices when we won't."

"You're my second in command to manage the riot from those decisions. It is a necessary evil, my friend," Cullen managed a smile through the gust.

South Reach was still a few days away.

He lifted his eyes to the Breach. When Evelyn had been here the gaping hole didn't seem so threatening. It had been a door waiting to be closed after someone left it ajar –a mistake easily remedied. That was not the case anymore. The pitless luminosity was death's calling itself, a whirlpool pulling everyone he cherished to their demise. Every second they treaded water in the ocean that was Thedas, it became harder not to drown.

"Do you honestly think we have a chance?" Rylen asked, as though the Knight-Captain could read minds. "The recruits know you're keeping quiet about the Herald because she's dead. They're not dense on this one, Rutherford. Shame they can't keep their heads that straight when they spar, right?"

"The Herald of Andraste has gone missing," Cullen said firmly. He wanted to believe it, "I… We do not know. Josephine does not want to make an announcement either way yet."

"They all know it. Why lay low on this one?"

A wall of wind helped create a gap between them and the rest of the team.

"A little hope is all we need to keep going," Cullen said, keeping his eyes fixed ahead, "Ours may be based on a half-baked theory, but we need every scrap of morale we can scavenge, Knight-Captain."

"Yes, Commander."

Cullen wished Lady Trevelyan or Cassandra had been on his other side.

* * *

Varric's sleep was disrupted by screams.

"No! Let me go! Don't put me in there!"

It was the voice of a young woman, maybe in her twenties. Varric blocked his ears slightly so it would mask the shrillness.

"Shut up!" a woman growled. Her voice was rough, almost like Meredith. "There's a dwarf next to you, cry to him instead."

"You're a monster! I'll make you pay!"

Their voices were getting closer

"Yeah, right." The woman sounded unamused.

Keys rattled among the struggling. Varric blocked his ears fully, not able to stand the sounds. He curled up into a ball. He had left his clothes along the floor of his cell to dry, but they didn't smell like anything had changed. It was hard to see when he was so exhausted.

He saw the armoured boots of the woman pass his cell and the gate to the outside closed. Slowly, Varric pulled his fingers out. The girl was crying.

_If she's new she can't be totally crazy, _he justified, crawling to the other side of the bars. She was in the cell to his right.

"Hey, what's your name? I'm not a bad guy. It's Varric," he said, feeling slightly hopeful. If he was lucky maybe he'd have someone else to talk to.

"A-Alexandra," the girl sobbed.

It would have been nice to put a face to the voice, but he'd have to do without for now. Varric couldn't see her from where he was.

"Where are you from?" he asked. "What brought you here?"

"I-It was _horrible_!" Alexandra cried. Varric flinched at the sound. "Demons attacked the city. I'm from Redcliffe. We all fled to the Hinterlands, but they were everywhere. No matter where you looked or went. A man… assured me he'd keep my family safe if I came quietly. He didn't say where he'd take me. I didn't know it was here." She was nearly incomprehensible from tears. "I never learned how to fight. I had no way of defending myself. He handed me to the guard. I don't know if I believed him, even then… it was either this or death. I don't _want_ to die yet."

"It's a shitstorm," Varric agreed, "Did you say demons invaded Redcliffe?"

"Monsters are _everywhere_." Alexandra breathed, sounding frightened, "Everyone is fighting them, but I am anxious it is not enough. It is like they've overpopulated the people. The green waves in the sky seem like they are getting bigger... that's what Pappa swears. 'If you get close enough, you can see'. Mamma thought he was right. Maker, I pray she is wrong. They can't become as prodigious as the big one!"

"Have you heard of the Inquisition?" Varric pressed, not wanting to think they were doomed.

Alexandra sobbed for a long while. "They're fighting too, I expect. I do not know what has happened to them. Nobody does. Please… do not ask me anymore questions! I am too…"

She wailed loudly.

"Alright, but ask me if you have any. I'm sure you do. I'm going to try sleep. Wait – sorry, I know no more questions- what time is it?"

"It was past midnight when my father woke me to tell me of the invasion," Alexandra said, "but that was a while ago now."

"Never mind," Varric said, "Forget it. Sleep and worry about it later."

"Thank you, Varric," Alexandra said, "I'm sorry for crying. I don't know when it will stop."

It didn't. The dwarf was at a loss as to how he slept that night either, but it certainly wasn't for a long time. It was hell just tossing and turning, hoping for rest.

The humming made it even worse.

* * *

He had 48 hours, more or less, until his next wash, and the next talk with his friends.

_I can't believe I'm calling Seeker my friend, _Varric thought.

Now Varric was surrounded by complete strangers even Solas seemed like a best friend.

He stared at the face in the cell directly opposite him - a teenage boy with hair so short he could have been bald. Fresh blood splatters were on his linen clothes.

"Are you trying to dry your clothes?" he asked, his voice at that awkward point where it hadn't finished breaking yet. "They stink."

"I'd prefer a nicer introduction, but who am I to ask for good things?" Varric sighed. He sat with his head on his knees, so the boy couldn't stare at his endowment, even if underwear was all he had on. "I'm Varric, writer and occasional unwelcome tagalong."

He felt ill using an old line on someone he didn't have a great first impression of. He needed to be reminded that he was more than a prisoner. He had a history, and he didn't want to forget it.

"You should put them on the red crystals," the boy said "they will dry them out."

_Is it like the guards plan to make you have no choice but to use the 'crystals'?_

"I don't want to use these pretty diamonds of yours, kid," Varric said simply.

"Why not? They won't dry unless you do. It's too damp in here. Mother could have told me that."

"I didn't have such a doting mother. Thank you for the reminder," Varric said bitterly. He touched his trousers to be sure. Yep, still soaking wet… damn it!

"You should put some clothes on before you get sick."

Varric wanted to strangle the kid, but hey, he was only an adolescent. "Look Broody, if you don't have anything nice to say, I'd really prefer not to hear about it."

"My name isn't Broody," the kid retorted, dignified, "It's Cade."

"Your name is Broody if I say it is, ok?"

Varric was staring at the red lyrium now. Maybe there was no escaping. Maybe he ought to give in. Still, he'd much rather create his _own_ fantasy world to confide in.

"But that's annoying," Cade said.

The dwarf covered his face with his hands. Usually he would be more polite, but it was hard to keep up the front in this environment.

"Stop bickering. You're just like my sister," Alexandra said.

Varric sighed in relief. The sound of her lisp was a pleasant change.

"What's bad about the crystals, Varric?" Alexandra asked, "I've kept away just because it looks perplexing, like sour dairy."

Varric glared at the wall that Alexandra was on the other side of. Why couldn't the girl have been placed in the cell opposite?

"My brother once gathered a red lyrium idol from the Deep Roads. It made him crazy. Meredith went nuts over the stuff too. It makes people do weird shit. We're… never mind."

_We're here in this prison so the guards can loot the crystals when they multiply in our bodies._

He couldn't say it. Not to the kind, helpless Redcliffe girl.

"That makes a lot of sense," Alexandra said, "For once I listened to my intuition. Mamma would be proud."

"Your mother sounds like an idiot," Cade snapped.

"Listen to Varric, Cade," Alexandra said, "If you don't have anything nice to say-"

"I didn't _want_ to come here!" Cade yelled, "My father donated me! He tossed me! He's a tosser! I knew it! He did the same to mother!"

_Oh, more family drama on the horizon_, Varric thought.

Cade wiped some tears from his eyes. At least arguing would pass the time.

"What's your story, Varric?" Alexandra wondered, "How did you get here?"

"I'm not sure the story is one for little ears," he said lightly.

Cade glared at him.

_That's right, Broody,_ Varric thought, _Keep doing what you do best._

"I would like to know," the girl said, "If anything, I _need_ the education. I haven't travelled very much. You must have if you've been near the Deep Roads."

"Alright, let me grab my notes…"

Varric hesitated. He was sure he'd left his notebook behind when he showered. Nope. He picked out the soggy pages from one of the pockets. It was soaked through.

"_Shit_!" Varric swore. He lay the pages out on the ground, "How did I manage to do something so dumb?"

"Don't blame yourself. Your ability to think is compromised."

Varric didn't care for rationality. He wanted to scream, cold, close to naked and he had no choice but to let his clothes dry by the lyrium.

"It's not _all_ ruined, calm down!" Cade assured him.

The dwarf tried to steady his breathing. "I guess I'm screwed. To the graveyard I go."

He picked up his trousers and stared at the glowing monstrosity in the corner.

"Just do it, Varric," Alexandra said, "We're all going to have to do the same. It's either that or you die from something else."

_No, I can't die!_

He crawled a step closer. Cassandra told him to stay strong.

Closing his eyes, Varric tossed his trousers over the crystals. It slipped down, but stayed put.

"Nice job."

It wasn't Alexandra that said it, but Cade.

Varric looked at him, astounded.

"What? I'm not angry all the time, you know." Cade said.

"Whatever, Broody," Varric tried to read what pages he could decipher, but they had stuck together from the moisture. "I'll go from memory… _again_."

He recounted the story, pretending he was in the Hanged Man. He had an audience this time, an interested one. It was like old times with Hawke. The good times.

"Food…" he groaned. It was funny how much more unstable he was surrounded by people. "It's so painful."

"Do we get food?" Alexandra asked.

Varric filed her in on what he knew so far. She wasn't happy.

"I didn't think crystals were edible, especially not _these_ ones. I'm used to having food on the hour. I don't know if I'll resist for long."

Cade kicked his bars. "This is stupid! I bet it tastes like wood."

"I imagine worse, Broody," Varric said sadly.

It sounded like Alexandra was having a panic attack beside him. Her breathing had gone haywire.

"I- I can't. I won't be able to make it. I get so grumpy when I don't eat! Oh no!"

Not knowing how to make it better, Varric didn't say anything. He feared Alexandra would be the first to go.

"How about a nickname, Redcliffe?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

Alexandra's voice shook. "Y-Y-Yes… just so long as it's not Piggy. My little sister used to call me that."

"I meant Redcliffe is your new nickname."

"Oh." Alexandra seemed to calm down. "Why is that?"

"Why not?" Varric said, "I like giving my friends obscure nicknames."

In that sentence he had unwillingly called Cade his friend, but Varric overlooked this.

"What do you do for fun, Redcliffe?" Varric asked, preparing himself for a long backstory.

"I love fishing with Pappa – we are of Peyton House. We provide 65% of Redcliffe's fish. My favourite thing is to cook them in a stew with vegetables. I don't mind gutting them either."

"That's vile!" Cade complained.

"I hate the smell, but the taste is pretty good. You would never get that sort of luxury in Orzammar." Varric tried to support Alexandra, "so your Dad kind of famous back home, is he?"

"I think so. He seems to know most of the villagers when I've helped him at the markets," Alexandra remembered, ignoring Cade. "My sister Fran is the favourite though. Pap and Mam always deny it, but I know the truth. Just because Fran is good with a bow somehow that warrants her all the attention? 'It's a gift,' they say, 'an honour' they gab. It is so frustrating. _I _can take over the family business, but instead I get stuck collecting herbs for Mamma's potion trade."

"I thought Dad let his fish gutter hoist the sails?" Varric asked.

"Not often. He says it's his alone time, that it's not ladies work, but he is a bigoted fool!" Alexandra denounced, "Since the sky started getting holes in it I went out less and less because work was so slow. It is such a pique. My story is so much more boring than yours, Varric."

"It sounds simple. When you've been through a lot of crazy times, boring becomes much more tolerable," Varric admitted. He turned to Cade, "Is there some justification for your behaviour besides hormones, Broody?"

"I don't want to talk anymore," Cade said, "I want to go home."

"Yeah, I don't mean to burst your hopes and dreams, Broody, but I don't think home is going to come strolling in anytime soon… or taking us to it, whatever you want to call it. Crap. I can't think. Sorry."

Varric nervously prodded his trousers. They had already dried, but a red mist was floating off them. He yanked them off and tried to air it out. The mist slightly dissipated. The dwarf placed them on the ground. The shirt was next. He tossed it over.


	6. Resistance

The demons appeared more frequently than last time he'd travelled.

After four recruits had complained about feeling faint Cullen thought there was no use continuing. They stopped under a clump of trees. It was the safest place to tie up their horses and the shade helped them recover from the overbearing sun, even clouded by patches of green.

Cullen sighed and chewed at his bread. It was slightly stale, but it was all they had. He tried to mask the outward appearance of his headache, not knowing if it was from stress or the inevitable lyrium withdrawal. As soon as his performance started to suffer again he'd have to take more. He wasn't looking forward to it.

"You're not the Commander! I want to hear it from him!" rallied a voice.

Cullen turned. Rylen had his hands up in a non-confrontational gesture. The speaker was female and a number of years younger than him. She had was the very definition of rigid, all her features were stern and harsh.

"The Commander needs rest as much as the rest of you. I'd leave him alone," Rylen murmured.

"Pff! Rest!"

The girl approached Cullen, her nose wrinkled in anger.

Bracing himself for conflict, the Commander swallowed the last of his bread, catching an apologetic glimpse from Rylen.

"Is there a problem, Tory?"

Cullen sometimes had trouble remembering the men's names, but never the girls. There were fewer of them, and this one was infamous among the ranks. He had overheard some complain that she acted like she was 'permanently in the monthlies', and her mood swings could have convinced anyone. Though her rage and courage was helpful in combat, it wasn't in respite.

Many theorized she had a mental problem. Cullen hated to admit it, but she probably did.

"Stop avoiding everyone!" Tory yelled, "There's no hope for the Breach closing. We get it, alright?"

"Would you prefer to return to Haven?" Cullen inquired, trying to stay calm, "You have a choice every step of this journey. If you wish to retreat, I will find two others to accompany you."

"No, but you're being a coward! A _real_ Commander would admit we're screwed but tell us to keep fighting anyway! Admit you made a mistake! Come on!"

"Not all the recruits are as gallant as you." Cullen tried to ease her rage. "It is difficult to strike a balance that pleases all parties. I'd like to see you manage for three hours in my position. In truth, I am uncertain of our fate, but I am here to encourage you to resist surrender."

"You're not pleasing anyone! I thought you were pretty funny when you were chatting up Andraste's bitch, but I guess you've lost your sense of humour too!" Tory shouted. "I bet you slept with her, right? That's why you're being so paltry!"

"Hey there, do you mind not insulting the feathery tall guy?" Sera jumped in at just the right moment, "He's a bit pish sometimes, I get it - but nothing on you, not the way you're going. Do you get it yet? Suck it up! That's what soldiers are for, right? Balls, here you are wussing and I don't even have the same armour junk you do!"

The other soldiers were staring. Cullen shut his eyes and tried to rid himself of fatigue.

"Why should I listen to an elf cunt like you?" Tory sneered.

Sera grabbed Tory's hand and pushed one of her fingers back. "Don't talk to me about those unless you want yours chewed off or out! I can do both, if you want!"

Tory breathed through her nose. It sounded frightening. The Commander knew this was the time to tell them to stop, but he couldn't find the words. Thankfully, the Iron Bull stepped between them and pushed them away by the foreheads. "There are some great sticks here. Which one should I belt first, boss?"

Cullen peered at Tory's red eyes, to Sera's snarl.

"We can resort to violence if there is resistance at Therinfal Redoubt. For now leave it be, _please_." he explained, praying to the Maker they would see sense. Yes, the world was mad, but that was no excuse for this behaviour. "I am sorry I have dissatisfied your demands, Tory. If you need lyrium, take some of mine, but I beg you to remember the soldier I hired you for. Otherwise you might as well pack your bags when we return to Haven. Or you can return right now. No one is stopping you."

Tory sniffed haughtily. "Some more credit would be nice for half killing ourselves on this trip."

Cullen glared at her. "We're more likely to die from some inevitable catastrophe if we don't make proper use of the time we have. I have made it clear numerous times I appreciate the efforts, and I appreciate how this job is especially difficult, but you are needed here. Every soldier counts, no matter how grumpy or disgruntled they are, Tory."

"Yes, make it sound like it's nothing. That's what you're good at, isn't it?" Tory groused, though Cullen thought he must have done something right because she walked off. "If things turn to the dogs in Therinfal Redoubt I'm leaving your sorry Inquisition, and I won't be the only one."

Cullen waved a hand to bid her farewell, at a loss of what to do.

"You're doing good, Boss," The Iron Bull assured him, "I don't know. It's fucked. You know it, I know it, we _all_ know it, I am willing to bet drinks the hole in the sky knows it too, but I've only heard a few say they want to leave."

"It is no concern of mine," Cullen lied, getting angry again, "I have no use for undedicated soldiers who won't do as they are asked. The Inquisition could survive if they all left!"

This was his worst lie so far, and no, he would not own up to the Herald's death. He cleaned up the last of the bread crumbs with a roughness that made him appear like he was trying to attack a flurry of ants.

"Prepare to depart," Cullen told Sera, "I don't want to leave another blighted second of opportunity to be bothered or criticized by anyone else, regardless of how much truth or sincerity any of it has."

"Serves them right if you ask me," Sera muttered disgruntled.

He didn't look at his soldiers as her footsteps became as quiet as the rustling leaves.

* * *

"I need to use the restroom," Alexandra said, "How do we get their attention?"

By lots of yelling, it turned out.

Ian came storming in. "_I heard you_!" he yelled, "Shut up!"

They quietened instantly. Varric smirked at Cade. He seemed amused by this development.

Alexandra put on her sweetest voice. "May I use the restroom, dear guard?"

Ian growled. "At least I get to tie up a pretty one."

Alexandra didn't reply. Varric waited with baited breath. If she walked past his cell that meant he would be able to look at her! It was the strange this was the best he could look forward to.

The rattle of chains, keys and the squeaking of the door signalled her exit. Varric kept his eyes peeled, although he was very embarrassed to be _still_ mostly naked.

"Thank you," Alexandra said.

First Ian crossed, then her.

Varric was overwhelmed with friendly compassion. He wished he could have hugged her. Redcliffe was extremely thin, unhealthily so. Alexandra's elbows were far too pronounced and her knees looked strained and bruised. She was very pale, though a few freckles covered her cheeks. Given she'd hardly been here a day this must be how she normally looked, flat chested and petite. Varric could now see Fran had used her nickname ironically. The older sister certainly didn't _look_ like she was used to eating on the hour. The Peyton was a stick figure, a frail silhouette.

She had a white dress, but it was smudged with the green water. Her shoulder length hair was a mousy maroon. Her eyes were grey… or were they blue too, just deformed by the light?

Alexandra nodded at Varric as she passed.

Cade laughed once they were out of earshot. "Do you _actually_ think she's pretty?" he chortled, "She's blooming awful."

"I don't remember asking for your opinion." Varric said. In truth, he thought she looked ill, though sympathetic.

Cade snorted. "Do you like her?"

"You don't know infatuation when you see it, Broody," Varric said lightly, "My heart, in all its torn up pieces, belongs to someone else."

"Bianca, right?" Cade chuckled, "Why do you talk to your crossbow so much, then?"

"Quiet down, Broody," Varric said calmly, "I can string more insults at you then vocabulary you have in your tiny head."

"I was just asking!" Cade said, irritated. He curled up in a ball and lay down. "This place is _boring_!"

The boredom was something Varric would never get used to. He was fatigued of being blasé about things he liked.

Alexandra returned, and they entertained themselves by singing travel or tavern songs, the only ones they knew. She had a raspy singing voice, like she wasn't used to doing so. Varric didn't mind. She was better company than Royle.

"Blast the moon, I can't take this anymore," Alexandra said after a prolonged silence. Varric heard her scurry. "How do I break off this crystal?"

"Redcliffe, no!" he groaned. "I'm hungry too, I get it, but you _can't_!"

"I can," Alexandra said solemnly, "I'd like to see you stop me."

"You should think more about this-"

"I HAVE!" Alexandra screamed, "I've thought of _nothing else_ all day. I'm _starving_! Close your gob, Cade!"

Cade shook his head. "If you're having some, I'll get some too!"

"No!" Varric groaned, "There's just a few more hours until we get actual food."

"You said that _hours ago_," Alexandra whined.

"You can't know what time it is!"

"Neither can you!"

"STOP FIGHTING!" Cade yelled.

They all fell silent. They had never heard Cade use such a commanding tone before.

"How about we all have some? Then there's no reason to fight. You can stop pestering us, Varric," Alexandra noted.

"B-But my _brother_…"

"I don't care about your family. It doesn't matter anymore," Cade justified, "How about we all take it… so we go down together?"

"That's a horrible idea!" Varric protested, "Not the kind I want to do, either."

"We're all going to die, anyway," Alexandra said, "How does it make any difference how it happens? I'd rather die of hallucinations then starvation."

"I've survived this long. So can you."

"I _don't want to_," Redcliffe said, and sadness filled her tone, "I'm cold and I'm tired. I'm _hungry_. I just want a distraction. That's all. It will keep me going until dinner."

"Do what you want." Varric sighed. "I'm just not looking forward to having an empty cell next to me again."

"You're nice company too," Alexandra said. "Come on, let's do it as a group."

"I'm keeping out of it – even though it _kills me_, I'm stronger than this," Varric said, "Let me know how it goes, but don't say I didn't warn you."

"May the Maker smile upon you, Varric," Alexandra praised, and Varric braced himself for what would occur. He wasn't exactly sure, but he knew it wouldn't be pleasant. A snapping sound filled his ears.

"Oh, that came off easier than I expected," she remarked.

_Because it wants to consume the last of your bones,_ Varric thought.

Cade broke off some from his wall too. "Here I go."

Varric peered over at Cade, wishing he had food too, just not… _that_. The kid broke off a corner of his piece and chewed on it. He swallowed, with an uncomfortable look on his face.

"If glass had a taste, this would be it," he decided, and he chewed another piece, "It doesn't taste like anything."

"Mine is sweet," Alexandra realized.

More crunching came from beside him. To think they were actually eating the crystal was mind blowing. He heard Alexandra swallow. "It reminds me of dessert wine. Something nice, but you are not supposed to have it on its own."

"Hey, I heard you rascals were yelling," Royle's voice came from the door, "Keep it down, or we'll separate you."

Each one of them nodded, not wanting that fate.

Cade gasped. "It burns as it goes down. Like whiskey."

"You're right," Alexandra agreed, "What are _you_ doing drinking whiskey?"

"You two might as well drown yourselves in the showers!" Varric warned, careful not to shout.

"I won't unless you do," Alexandra said, and Varric realized with horror that the Redcliffe girl who liked to fish had very little to live for. She must already believe they were doomed. No wonder she had succumbed to the red lyrium's clutches so soon.

"I hope you guys like nightmares," he said, "I've heard they're brutal."

"We have each other," Alexandra said, between mouthfuls of lyrium, "We can get through it."

_We'll go through hell and die together?_ Varric wanted to say, _is that your idea of a heroic death?_

He didn't say it. He didn't want to hear Alexandra confirm that was what she believed. Varric Tethras needed to believe something more hopeful if he was going to retain his sanity.

He didn't want Alexandra to be the first to go, but her brittle frame made the thought even harder to push away.


	7. Deadlock

There were many blunders Cullen was expecting when they reached the Brecilian Forest on the outskirts of Denerim. He expected nightmares in his sleep when they made camp, he anticipated abuse and shouting from the soldiers, but what he did not predict was the campfire that had already been made under a tree on the far side of a river, or the gaping fissure in the sky pouring out bars of green, like a lightning storm had materialized right over the city.

"I don't like the look of this, ser," Rylen muttered.

Cullen peered at the campfire suspiciously, surprised to find Templars, four of them. Over a dozen horses were kept to the area, and thirty city elves, dwarves and humans were not far behind.

Dirt went flying as he halted his horse.

"Everyone dismount!"

Hoisting his leg over made it cramp, so he stumbled as he descended, trying to hide the weakness.

A Templar with dark skin had a cut down the side of his face and bruises. Bandages were wrapped around the other Templars, who the Commander did not recognize, two men, one female.

"Are you Inquisition?" one Templar asked.

"I didn't expect anyone to recognize us," Cullen noted, cautiously peering around to see which banners hadn't burned away in combat. "Yes, that's correct. I'm Commander Cullen, former Knight Commander of the Kirkwall Circle. What is the situation here?"

To overcome the incessant sobbing that paraded from the city dwellers, he raised his voice. Rylen dutifully reached his side.

"Ser Barris," the Templar in front said. "We tried to fight them off. I swear by the Maker we gave it our all."

"I am not attempting to condemn you, brother," Cullen said, softening his voice now. "Although, I would like more information: who is our common enemy?"

"They eat the red lyrium! They turned into barbarians, the whole lot of them," a woman Templar answered.

"Who did?" Cullen demanded.

"I've told the soldier's to comfort and talk to the Denerims, Commander," Rylen informed Cullen, who nodded once and refocused his attention on Barris.

"They call themselves Red Templars, but they are no Templars of the Chantry. They are unjust and ruthless, concerned only with destruction," Barris said shamefully, " Seeker Lucius started it. He is evil, brother. They said the Elder One would overpower us. We fought for as long as we could, but we lost too many. We… we had to escape for the sake of the people."

"The rift is rearing up a mighty tempest," Rylen acknowledged, staring at the looming cloud.

Cullen clenched his jaw. "Are demons infesting the streets, Knight-Templar?"

"Too many!" a male Templar with scars on his face exclaimed, "The rift has gotten larger. It frightens even the strongest fighters."

"Would you be willing to join the Inquisition?" Cullen requested seriously, "We have a team of mages back in Haven. We believe with their help, with the forces that remain of the Order, we can make the Breach lie dormant. If the Inquisition is going to have a fighting chance, delaying the effects of the rift is vital."

"I'm up for any plan so long as it isn't staying here. Alston – pleased to meet you." said the scarred Templar.

"I know too well how that feels." Cullen rigorously shook his hand. "Do you have lyrium of your own?"

"We managed to nick some of the red lyrium from Seeker Lucius stores, but we lost half of it getting here," the woman Templar said. "It's Noreen."

"I know it is wrong to take the same lyrium as our attackers," Barris said, "We only need a quarter to get the same effect as our usual stores. It will last a long time, especially if we suspend minor withdrawal."

Cullen felt a mixture of anger, guilt and sadness churn his stomach. He couldn't exactly complain that they'd weakened their enemies, though he couldn't suspend the consternation at the thought of using red lyrium.

Alston looked behind him. "We will need to move soon. Has everyone rested?"

Noreen rose to her feet and called out to the crowd. "Commander Cullen of the Inquisition has come to guide us back to Haven. If you would rather fight, stay or come, but there are plenty of horses to share."

"I'll handle them, Cullen," Rylen assured his superior.

Trying to take in all this information, Cullen demanded, "Should we return here with the city dwellers? Is there any chance of defeating the Seeker?"

Barris looked uncomfortable. "The Lord Seeker is not himself. We wonder if the Elder One has corrupted him with some blood magic."

"We couldn't get to Lucius without being trampled by Red Templars first."

"Where are they getting their lyrium supply?" Cullen asked.

"I can addle your brains with the answer."

Everyone turned. A woman in leather armour was standing there. She was tall, blonde, with hair brushed over sideways. She was human, it seemed. Dirt masked her features. "I was provided temporary housing there while I trained as a Red Templar but I couldn't manage. I left quick but I overheard talk of Redcliffe castle, caverns and mines for where they were procuring lyrium."

"Redcliffe is where the Herald disappeared," Cullen muttered quickly, putting pieces together out loud.

"What did you say?" Barris hissed, "The Herald is _gone_?!"

"Keep your voices down!" Cullen hissed, "I'll explain during the return journey." He returned his gaze to the woman. "What is your name, young lady?"

The woman nodded. She had intense brown eyes and a marking across her face, not unlike Cassandra. Citizens started to climb onto horses in the distance.

"Eimear," she said grimly, "My father had a liking for elves, hence the name. Is Haven beyond the Frostback Mountains?"

"Yes."

"My brother traveled there for a time, before he died, that is."

"I apologize for your loss." Cullen ignored the extra information. "Do you know anything else about the lyrium?"

"Not really." Eimear bit her lip and hurried forward. "I'm not sure exactly how or whom they were ordering lyrium from."

"Very well. Let's get moving."

Events going too fast for his liking, Cullen ran back to his horse and hoisted himself up, balancing upright with as much vigour he could manage. Some of his recruits had already accommodated an extra person on the back of their horses. They looked tired and frightened at the same time.

The rift thundered a roar from above their heads.

"Back to Haven!" Cullen called, waving his hand in the air, "and we can slow this awful Breach."

Scattered cheers were heard around him, but the Commander didn't feel assured at all.

"Wait!"

Cullen looked down. The remaining Templars were moving their horses in a formation. Only one woman left was staring at him: Eimear.

"Can I join you on the back of your horse? I brought a bow along. I can be useful."

She pointed to the weapon on her back.

Sera laughed. "Let her climb on your stallion, Cullen. She'll be a fun one for laughs if she falls off."

Cullen hesitated. He lifted his foot out of the left stirrup and turned the horse around. "Get on quickly," he urged her.

Eimear nodded. Despite her frame, she seemed strong. She very easily hoisted herself up and Cullen felt her little hands touch either side of his waist. It was a strangely intimate sensation, but he ignored it.

"Ready when you are, Commander," Eimear said.

"For the Hearld!" he yelled, outpouring his frustrating and disappointment into the call. It was returned with enthusiasm.

It hardly felt like they'd achieved their objective. Enemies were still out there.

"How much space does Haven have?" Eimear wondered, pressing for information Cullen didn't want to provide. He sighed.

"If there isn't room, we'll make it," he murmured, bracing himself for the wind as he went faster. He hoped the sound would discourage the girl from speaking. He awkwardly tried to change the subject. "Tell me more about what happened in Denerim."

"I lost most of my family. I had two sisters, besides my brother I mean. Both were wonderful with swords," Eimear explained, "One of them got injured trying to help me escape. Since I'm the youngest apparently I had the best chance. I don't know what happened to them."

"I'm sorry for your loss, Eimear," Cullen said quietly. It was slightly refreshing to not talk about the Inquisition. "I appreciate the information you have provided. Redcliffe Castle is certainly…"

He wanted to say 'intriguing' but it seemed an offense to all those who had been captured there.

"We have to burn it. Only the most nefarious horrors would mark a Royal dwelling as their own," Eimear said firmly. Cullen was slightly alarmed by her reckless ideals, "After the Breach is…dormant, is that correct?"

"It may not be so for long, but if the Red Templars are retrieving something from Redcliffe we must try halt the communications. Perhaps it will make Therinfal Redoubt easier to infiltrate," Cullen said shortly, proud a plan was starting to form in mind.

Barris reached Cullen's other side, with Alston sharing the same horse.

"Tell us of the Herald, Commander."

Cullen gripped the reins on his horse with sweaty palms. He would recount the story the best he could remember, and let them decide the outcome. The Commander was mildly unnerved that Eimear would hear the whole tale.

* * *

Varric was angry. The food hadn't been enough. That was probably the point. He was so mad at Green Eyes and wanted to strangle him. Not only had the Venatori blood mage pushed his head in the water earlier, but he'd told that Alexandra would probably be his co-worker's next victim.

Their plates had been taken long ago but he couldn't sleep.

The red mist still hung over his clothes, so Varric tried to air them out again, quietly and softly. He slid a leg in his trousers first, stomach growling at him. A horrible lump seared his throat and wetness creased the corner of his eyes.

"Varric, are you alright?" Alexandra muttered, "If I didn't know any better I'd say you were crying."

"You ever heard of a dwarf admit to crying, Redcliffe?" Varric struggled to keep composed.

Alexandra paused. "What would comfort you?"

Thank Andraste Cade had fallen asleep. The storyteller felt, almost hoped, Cade would die in slumber. Varric buried his now dry shirt in his face, trying not to sniffle too loud, though it was a futile endeavour.

"N-Nothing. I wish you could help," he murmured. "Ideally, I'd love to sit in my favourite tavern and tell a story with a full stomach and slightly tipsy, but all I have is this…. maybe a hug would do the trick. Yeah. That's slightly more realistic, isn't it?"

"I'm not good at those." Alexandra mentioned, "Pappa always said I'm too skinny."

"Yeah, he's not wrong about that one, Redcliffe." Varric forced a smile. "Just don't get any skinnier, okay? I really hate to say it out loud, but I dearly hate the thought that you'll be the first to drop, but I sometimes think optimism is a waste of time in this shithole."

"Probably." Alexandra sighed. "But at least I could give my family a fighting chance."

Varric didn't answer. He still hadn't made up his own mind if the girl's family would be spared or not.

"Are you scared?" Alexandra wondered. "It's fine if you are. I am."

"I don't want to lose my mind," Varric managed to say, "That's what I hate more than anything. I don't care if I die. If that happens, whatever, I can't stop it. I just want to do it with dignity. I don't want the guards to know they won."

"Prison isn't dignity," Alexandra murmured. "It's the opposite."

Varric laughed. "Yeah, it is. I'd be stupid to think it isn't. The… The guard with the scary voice is – fuck, I don't know – be careful of him, Redcliffe. He's dangerous. I haven't heard good things about him."

"Like what?"

"The sick creep apparently takes advantage of women. I wouldn't give him the benefit of the doubt on that one."

He put on his shirt. His boots were the only thing left. Maybe he'd leave them.

"You think so?' Alexandra asked, "That's not on."

"The other guard told me."

Alexandra hummed to herself. "My uncle touched me when I was seven. How could a guard having me be any worse?"

"He seems pretty brutal," Varric said, "More so than Broody, anyway."

Alexandra chuckled. "I'm only slightly more terrified. I never met a single boy who liked me. That's going to be the saddest thing about me dying."

"I like you."

"Not in the same way you would to marry me," Alexandra said, "Mamma was always ranting on and on - 'Fran is going to find the best suitor, all because she knows how to fight'. Yeah. Who wants a girl who smells of fish? The ocean? Of dirt? It's pretty pathetic. Why did I even try?"

"Just find a nice fisherman… well, fisherboy." Varric chuckled, "There's gotta be some around. I met plenty in Kirkwall."

"Haha… I don't mind the smell of fish. It reminds me of home."

"I feel the same way about sour ale and vomit." Varric laughed. "I hung around a bar a lot in Hightown."

They had a laugh.

Varric realized he had stopped crying. "Andraste's ashes, I hate this, but I have to… I need to eat the lyrium, Redcliffe. It hurts too much. I won't be able to sleep like this. I don't know how I got through the other times, but I can't anymore. I'm not that strong. If I can't sleep, I'll go crazy."

"I won't judge you," Alexandra said, "But if it isn't too much to ask, can you not call me Redcliffe? When I die I want someone to remember me for who I am."

"If you're sure, Alex." Varric replaced one nickname for another. "You're not ugly, just in case you were wondering. You're really, _horribly_ skinny, but not undatable. I can think of plenty of nice boys who might be your type."

Varric took a deep breath and moved closer to the lyrium crystals in the corner. He had it on his clothes, what was a little more?

_Yeah, nice cover up_, he told himself_, it isn't that simple and you know it._

Still… he could try. Varric sighed in relief as he felt the heat radiating off one of the bigger crystals. It was nice to not feel cold. Screwing up his face, he broke a piece off. It snapped.

He was really doing this, what he swore he wouldn't. He didn't need to end the starvation; he just had to make it not hurt enough to sleep. Hopefully this would be enough.

He brought it to his lips.

_Sorry, Bartrand, Cassandra… I betrayed you both._

Chewing the piece of lyrium was the strangest thing he'd ever tasted, and he'd travelled with Hawke _and_ the Inquisitor. It had the texture of glass, but the taste of more obscure. It was metallic like blood and sweet, a strange combination.

Varric swallowed, hoping the crystals wouldn't tear at his throat. He assumed that's what the burning was. Lots of sharp, jagged pieces the size of grindstones grazing his flesh... It didn't calm his stomach yet. The storyteller shakily took more.

"How do you find it?" Alexandra asked. She picked off another small piece for herself, "I think I'll get used to it."

"Worse than I expected," Varric grumbled through his teeth, "It's like digesting a weapon."

"Going by your story, that's accurate, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Varric groaned, "Don't remind me."

It wasn't great, but enough. He was now uncomfortable, rather than searing pain.

_I guess my will to live is too strong, Green Eyes, h_e thought angrily.

Almost instantly, with an element of relief, Varric fell asleep.


	8. Symbols

"Get up!"

Varric cringed as something solid collided painfully with his ribs. He opened his eyes to Green Eyes standing over him and his wrists already bound. Presumably, he'd been kicked.

"Y-yeah…" the dwarf began, hurriedly getting to his feet.

The Venatori pulled on the chains. "Talk time."

"I knew that," he lied.

"Get moving."

Varric and Green Eyes exited the cell and turned to the left, which brought them through another door, trying to glimpse at Alexandra before he went. Even though he had managed to sleep, it hadn't been restful. He'd had a nightmare about Bianca, and Alexandra's crying had woken him up somewhere in the middle. She hadn't disclosed the contents of her night terror.

It was a crying shame Varric's first encounter with the Fade was sombre, but not nearly as strange as he'd expected. Bartrand had experienced similar woes while his brain was engulfed by the idol. Hopefully it wouldn't get much worse.

A door creaked, and Varric found himself in another set of cells. The other prisoners seemed to be in worse shape. Etiolated and wet, the men and women didn't even glance as he passed. One was sobbing, another sleeping. Still not being able to fully sense the rock beneath his feet or orientate himself to the distant gush of water, Varric tried not to trip. With a headache trying to personally murder him, talking would be no easy task.

Solas was in a cell at the end.

_He's just been here the whole time?_ Varric thought amazed.

Even though Solas had been nearby judging from his echoing voice during bathroom breaks, the dwarf didn't realize his accomplice had been in the next room. The prison never ceased to amaze him, even for the wrong reasons.

Royle unlocked the cell gate. "He's very unresponsive. Good luck with the conversation thing."

Varric stepped inside, the lock rattled and Green Eyes' footsteps vanished. Solas was a suspicious sight. His skin had somehow gotten paler and a red mist floated around his body, like a shield, thicker than the one around Cade. His cell had plenty of more lyrium. If Solas moved it probably would prod him. Varric tried not to touch it as he sat down on the ground in front.

"Chuckles, it's me," Varric hissed. "Green Eyes is gone."

"I am aware of that, Varric," Solas said, and his eyelids smoothly opened. Varric flinched. The Dalish's eyes were so red he nearly didn't have an iris. "I just didn't want to give him the satisfaction."

"You look like horrid shit," Varric said, "Do I look that scary?"

"I have as much desire to face my own reflection as I do devouring the concoction of death," Solas murmured. His voice was calm, but Varric could tell he was angry. "You spoke to Cassandra last, I take it?"

"Yeah, she was doing alright," Varric said sadly, "Fiona's already had a lyrium filling removed."

"I suspected as much," Solas said, "Her nightmares are not nearly as horrific as others."

"Does that mean you can escape your own?" Varric asked.

The elf sighed and rubbed his head. "Sadly, no. I am very much aware my surroundings are not real, but I cannot break free of them. I… I have seen too much. It is very easy to get distracted by their contents. I wait, and try to shield myself from their horrors."

"Is it working?"

Solas smiled weakly. "A little. I am able to recover quickly when I return to this plane. Unfortunately, there is little reason for me to stay if I am not consuming a meal. I am curious if the red lyrium allows you to dream?"

Varric nodded.

"Is the world of dreams as you expected?"

"More or less." He couldn't hold back anymore. "Please, can you teach me how to not get bothered by the dreams?"

Solas uncrossed his legs. "I intend to. As a creature not used to dreaming you may have a better time adjusting to the change and focusing your mind. Before we wander into its depths, there is a very important matter to address. I met with Fiona last. She is not faring well. We attempted to speculate an escape route."

"And?" Varric urged.

"I am sorry to say, Varric, but we were unable to think of anything," Solas said simply. "We risk death no matter which way we turn. Even if we had weapons, potions, armour and stamina, there is no telling what is outside. From what I hear from those next to me, it is a never ending battlefield. If we don't die in here, we will mostly likely meet our demise beneath the Breach."

"What have you heard?" Varric rushed. "I don't know much besides a demon invasion."

"From what I gather, it appears the Breach intends to engulf the sky," Solas said slowly, "I do not know what that means for anyone, much less this Elder One. I cannot imagine his goal, even though I spend my time observing the dreams of others."

"Things are bad if you can't imagine them, right?" Varric tried to laugh, but he couldn't. "Will you teach the Seeker, too?"

"Fiona will teach Cassandra what little I could pass on to her. I am not sure how effective it will be, but Cassandra will have more will to practice than any of us. I suspect we will rotate. You are most likely going to encounter Fiona next."

"I'm not on the best speaking terms with her, but I'll be nice enough."

Solas nodded. "I tried to find the Herald in the Fade. To my dismay, she was not hiding within the pages of history. She is nowhere to be found. We can only presume her dead."

"But if that's the truth…" Varric's confidence faltered, not certain what he was attempting to say.

"The Fade deals with imaginings and memory, interpretation. One cannot provide thought on what has not occurred yet. If by some mistake she got sent to the future, I presume we will find out. I see it as very unlikely. Alexius seemed very clear with his magic. Perhaps I will investigate the circumstances surrounding Alexius's intentions. I recommend you don't linger on it anymore, lest the red lyrium feeds on your fears."

Every answer seemed to bring no hope, but he had to keep trying.

"What are we going to do about the Inquisition?" Varric continued.

"It is difficult to contact them. I see horrible apparitions, but I cannot decipher if they are thoughts, fears, or reality. It could be either. We will have to wait longer."

"I _can't_ wait, I've already started eating the red stuff!" Varric hissed. "Next they'll be yanking crystals from my armpits!"

"It is distasteful, unavoidable consequences of being here." Solas's tone was accepting. He was coping far better than any of them. His endurance probably matched Cassandra. "I have seen what it does, but it is nothing you cannot cope with if I teach you some mental tools."

"Please teach me now," Varric urged. Solas nodded.

"It is simple enough to explain, but much harder to do," Solas said. He truly appeared a demon in the cell. A spider scurried from behind him. "It requires your mind to be clear for long enough that you fall into slowed mental noise, but without losing your sense of self. This will become more difficult the longer you are exposed to lyrium, so it is imperative you learn the basics, and practice as much as you can." "

"Right. Doesn't sound too bad." Varric tried to quantify this in his head, but it was not easy, "I have _too much_ time to practice. I don't think that'll be a problem."

Solas stretched out his arms. "Good. Close your eyes."

Varric did as he was asked.

"Breathe…"

Later, he'd pass these skills onto Alexandra and Cade later.

"You're thinking," Solas said.

"Sorry. I'm not good at this Fade crap," Varric said quickly. "How are you _meant_ to keep your mind clear, anyway?"

"It takes practice. I find focusing on my destination, and only that, a good place to start." Solas breathed. "3, 2, 1…"

* * *

When Varric returned to his cell, feeling strangely lighter than before, Cade was staring at him.

"What in the blazes was that about?" he shouted.

"It's confusing. I hardly get it, either;" Varric begun, "The Elder One wants to extend the lives of me and my friends for some reason I don't understand. Talking will apparently make us 'last longer', whatever that means."

"That's villainous," Cade muttered, "He wants to extend your torture."

"Yeah, that would put some pieces together," Varric admitted. "Still, I really want to know who this Elder One is. I hope he's not some idiot in a hat."

"We won't have to wait long," Alexandra mumbled. Her voice sounded weaker. "He's supposed to be coming down here in a few days."

"Really? In this sewage pipe?" Varric gasped, "Are you sure?"

"The guard with the scary voice told me," Alexandra said, "He told me to behave."

Varric didn't want to know what other things Ian had told her. "Look, I'm not the best prison buddy, but I think I can rewrite my wrongs on this one. The guards can't know. I was taught a way to help us disconnect from the hallucinations of the red lyrium. It works for nightmares too. The catch is we need to master it fast. Would you like to give it a shot?"

Cade's eyes widened with interest. "Yes, please!" he said, at the same time Alexandra agreed.

Practicing took them up to dinner. It was nice timing too, as his mind seemed more prone to wandering than usual.

* * *

Cullen ate restlessly. With so many extra bodies accompanying them back to Haven the travel time was slower and more vexing.

They'd had a rough night watch, having to destroy a Pride Demon and some other unruly monsters from a far off rift, but it was under control for now. They hadn't met any spitting fire demons in this section of land.

He saw a demon with bared teeth and glowing eyes. Cullen gripped his knees until they hurt.

Flashbacks were starting to disrupt his concentration, but he wanted to avoid lyrium until he returned to Haven. Horseback riding wasn't exactly something he needed his mind for, and the longer he went without blue lyrium, the longer he could hold off on the red. He still felt a different kind of sickness for agreeing to take it again in the first place.

The ones who had brought arrows had managed to kill some wolves, and it was easy enough to strip and cook. Cullen could probably count on his hands the number of strange animals he'd consumed for meals. Wolf thigh wasn't one of his favourites.

Eimear sat next to him, wiping grease off her chin. "The Herald meant something to you. I can tell. You looked sad when you talked about her," she explained.

"I don't know what she meant to me. Not entirely," Cullen admitted. He rested his elbows on his legs. "More importantly, I don't know what I meaning I had to _her_. I… It sounds so outrageous. Part of me wondered if she was entranced by me."

"That's more likely than you probably think," Eimear replied.

"What?" Cullen laughed. He stared at Eimear. She had a dimple next to her left eye. Behind the dirt, she could almost be described as beautiful. The twinkle in her eyes was just like Trevelyan.

"You're a dainty feller. Has no one ever told you?"

Cullen blushed, staring at the earth beneath him. "Eh, not precisely in those terms."

Eimear persisted. "I'm amazed. Would you like a pet name?"

"A p-pet name?" Cullen squeaked. He had never been talked to like this with so little rapport. "What good would that do?"

"Take your mind off the craziness." Eimear grinned. "You can give me another name if it helps."

_The only name I'd want to give you is Evelyn,_ Cullen thought angrily to himself. He tried to not let the emotion show in his face. "Eimear will do fine. I have a nasty liking for elves names myself. Yours fits nicely, even if you lack the matching ears."

Sera coughed loudly, standing behind him. "We ready to move on or what?"

Somehow, the elf's strong accent did not hurt his ears like it usually did. Cullen saw this as an improvement of some description. He hesitated and clapped Eimear very softly on the back, as though he was afraid he'd shatter her bones.

"We must continue," he announced loudly, more to the group than her, "We have many lands to traverse. Ladies first, Eimear..."

Their horse wasn't far. Sera caught eyes with Eimear and bounced off to secure her own transport.

Eimear was smiling innocently at him. "You're quite the gentleman, Little Dove."

Cullen laughed. "I can't believe you are comparing me to a _bird_ of all things. Do you have no greater ideas?"

Eimear approached the black horse and placed her foot in the stirrup. "What do you mean? It's perfect for you."

"Why is that?" Cullen wondered, following her. Eimear was on the horse now. Her smile vanished only slightly, but the sun could have shone from her eyes.

"It means peace and gentleness," she explained.

"I am well versed in Chantry symbolics." Cullen snorted, "I highly doubt I embody any of those qualities, Eimear."

"You appear very gentle to me," Eimear praised, "Are you saying I'm wrong?"

Cullen couldn't describe why, but her expression made him incredibly sad. Her words dismantled him like every arrow she possessed would. He didn't respond or look at her as he joined her on the equine specimen. Something about the woman's comment made the Commander wish he could kick her off, but the team had already resumed their positions and it would be inappropriate to cause a commotion.

He resorted instead to keep quiet as they trotted toward the mountains.

* * *

Cade scratched his neck, irritated. He had finished his bread and was about to get started on a chicken wing. The kid appeared more menacing than he had when he'd arrived from the red mist alone.

"It feels like something bit me," Cade complained. "It hurts."

"Turn," Varric instructed. Cade did, but there was nothing but nail marks.

"I don't see anything," the dwarf said, "but if anything weird happens you should tell the guards, even if they are terrible."

"My feet are itchy too," Alexandra noted. "Maybe it's just the cold."

"Let's hope so." Varric grimaced. He didn't want to think about it.

Royle and Ian's boots splashed and the muffled sound of voices could be heard. Bath time was happening in a group.

Alexandra seemed to put things together in her head. "Um… do they give us our own space?"

"I wouldn't call it segregated; if that was the word you were looking for," Varric said, trying to keep his voice light.

Cade swallowed some chicken with difficulty. "Are you saying we have to be naked _together_?" he exclaimed.

Varric raised his hands in protest. "Probably, but don't lose your hair over it. I promise I won't perv on the children. The guards didn't for me."

He heard Alexandra choke on what he guessed was bread. "They won't want to look at _you_, but what about _me_?! _I'm_ the girl!" she yawped in horror.

Cade laughed. "Don't worry, you're way too bony. You don't have any boobs."

"How would _you_ know!?" Alexandra asked indignantly.

"I'm sure you have a favourable set, Alex – but hopefully not nice enough for the guards to want to peek." Varric jumped to her defense, but he realized it probably wasn't much comfort.

"_I_ won't peek, Alexandra," Cade assured her. "You're ugly in my mind."

"Ouch," Varric couldn't help but laugh, but Alexandra had gone quiet. "Alex, are you still with us?"

"My feet are itchy," she blurted out after a while. "Don't talk to me. I need to clear my head."

_Was Alex hallucinating?_ Varric wondered, but he remained silent. The most obvious indicators of hallucinating at this stage was muttering to oneself, and that had only happened to Cade when he'd been sleeping. What sort of hallucinations would a Redcliffe fisherwoman have? Maybe he'd ask her later, but first he took the ink and notebook out of his pocket. He wasn't making that mistake again.


	9. Vulnerability

It was a dreadful moment when Solas and his cell neighbours returned. It wasn't Cade he was worried about, or even himself. He'd gotten over his nerves about others seeing him once he'd spent too many hours wearing next to nothing. The feature prisoners would be most drawn to would be his chest hair, at worst.

Varric felt more nervous at the thought of a naked Alexandra within his company. He hoped the Venatori wouldn't be disgusting and crude around her. That would be taking their cruelty a step too far.

Alexandra's and Cade's cell creaked open first, the wretched screeching as horrific as a Lessor Terror.

"Come on, kid." said Green Eyes.

Deep Voice had got to Alexandra. "Bath time, sweet."

Varric quivered at the tone of his voice. "I've heard Pride Demons that could sing better than you."

"Shut up."

With the clunk of heavy chains, and the two stood up and walked out. Alexandra was looking at the floor when Royle got to his cell. Varric caught a glimpse of her lower legs, pale with discoloured streaks. Her feet were pink from the scratching. The dwarf had theorized that the guards picked out favourites, and now it was confirmed.

"Hurry it, pink eye." Royle pat Varric on the back. It was an almost caring gesture.

Varric got to his feet as easily as the chains would allow. Balancing with wrists stuck in front was like trying to find a doorway in the dark. Everything felt like it wasn't where it was supposed to be.

Cade raked the shackles against the side of his neck. Alexandra was using her toenails to scratch her feet, making the pace of their walking disjointed. Something was definitely off about their persistent itching. Varric hadn't experienced anything like it yet.

After a too lengthy a silence, they'd reached the washroom. Condensation filed the air, as if to remind them that it wasn't going to be a private gathering.

Royle stood to one side. "Ladies first,"

A gesture to Alexandra later, she took a few steps forward, trembling.

"Y-You wonderful men aren't going to watch me, are you?" she said.

"We wait outside like perfect gentleman, to guarantee you behave," Deep voice grumbled.

Alexandra's lip trembled, but she followed the torque of the chain. "I believe you. I'm just nervous."

"Everyone is the first time," Ian advised, and he removed the bindings. Royle did the same for Cade, while Varric waited in silence. "Just pretend we're a family. Don't Redcliffe folk wash together?"

"It helps to save water," Alexandra said weakly.

"Just imagine we're trying to save water, then."

Alexandra's grey eyes turned to Varric's gold ones. If only the meditation was possible to do without toppling over. Washing was incredibly embarrassing, not to mention freezing and awkward.

_This is just like before_, he told himself. _Nobody is going to look._

Only it wasn't like before. Considering what he knew so far of the guards, there was no doubt they _would_ look. Varric was absolutely convinced the guard's would have spied on Alexandra, but he kept his eyes on his feet the whole time and couldn't confirm either way.

* * *

Cullen hurried toward Josephine's quarters. It may be past midnight, but the preparations could not stop. They had to stock up so they could approach the Breach in the morning. He needed lyrium and information before retiring to sleep.

Rylen was close behind, his boots cluttering from a half jog. "Should I alert the mages, Commander?"

"Please do, Knight-Captain. Kindly ask Vivienne to tell their superiors, and ensure they are reminded in the morning. For now, give them peace and let them sleep." Cullen nodded. His armour jostled as he pushed open the Chantry doors.

A rumble echoed through the empty chapel as they marched, sinister and unearthly.

"What about the Templars?" Rylen added.

Cullen didn't look at his assistant. "They will be fine. Gather them together and find our new allies a place to rest. If there is any time remaining, find out which of my soldier's intend to depart. I will help after I've spoken with the Ambassador."

Their voices echoed like shouting down a bottomless pit.

"Of course, Commander."

Rylen turned around in the other direction. Cullen reached out his hand to Josephine's office. There was not a moment to resist or waver.

Softer footsteps redoubled from behind. It couldn't be the Knight-Captain, for his footsteps were still growing fainter.

"C-Commander…" stuttered a voice.

Cullen was so shocked by the female utterance he twisted around. "What is it? I do not have time for idle chatter."

His arm fell from the door handle as he spotted Eimear, the woman from Denerim. She'd wiped the rest of the dirt off her face, with snow perhaps, and she looked more like Trevelyan than ever. She had the same eyes and smile. Like looking through a window to a cottage, the fire burned with a similar flicker.

"Did I knock you off your perch, Little Dove?" she asked. "If something goes wrong with this Breach mission, I don't want to be separated from you knowing you hate me."

"You…" Cullen took a deep breath and sighed. "I cannot explain it now, Eimear. There is work to be done, and… paranoia is not your friend under any circumstance. If you'd like to assist, perhaps you could help the Knight-Captain with securing resting places for our new allies."

"Whatever will be useful," Eimear said clumsily. She gave a half bow. "Be careful, Little Dove!"

Befuddled by the exchange, Cullen shook his head as he turned the handle to Josephine's office.

_I'd much rather hear a joke than something so kindhearted, _he thought bitterly.

* * *

"Bianca?" Varric asked.

He rubbed his eyes, returning from a terrible nightmare where the Breach had engulfed the entire sky. The hard, textured ground and the faint glow of red brought him back to the present, but it was like reading a flat ending to a book. It still left a bad taste in the mouth.

_How do humans and elves deal with his shit nearly every night?_

Opposite him, Cade was crying into his hands. It wasn't clear why at first. His neck looked normal, but then Varric discerned dark splatters on the ground- blood. The sobbing was close to silent, a talent that was sadly futile in prison. Moans echoed from somewhere outside and Varric couldn't decide if he preferred the nightmare or this.

A muffled high pitch scream split from the cell on his right.

Varric winced. "Alex?"

The guard who had brought Alexandra in was muttering, her voice bogged down and heavy. Judging from her tone she could be renamed Meredith Incarnate. "It's nearly out. Settle. The pain will be gone then. I'll fix it."

Alexandra screamed incomprehensibly, possibly from behind a hand.

A slash similar to a bear tearing open flesh felt like it could physically wound. In reflex, Varric shut his eyes and tensed every muscle in his body.

_Thump_

"Don't kick me!" Meredith Incarnate growled. "It's gone, see… now I can heal you."

Varric's expression hardened as he identified Alexandra's sadness among the chaos. Her breathing pattern changed, more laboured and gasping.

With an eruption of sound looming shapes created a sharp contrast on the opposite wall. Not knowing exactly what had happened made it worse.

"I'm mutated! I'm _mutated_!" a man bellowed.

It wasn't anyone he knew, probably from the other room, and yet it sounded so _close_.

_Maybe this is what crazy people who hear voices feel like,_ Varric thought.

"I wish they could hear me from here!" Meredith Incarnate yelled. "Zip it!"

The sound of magic ceased.

"There, girl," Meredith Incarnate said. "Try to sleep, now."

"What just happened to me?!" Alexandra squealed, panicked. "Why was it… why was it growing from under my toenails?!"

"Shit!"

Filled with a sickening churn in his stomach, Varric looked away, as if it might remove the idea from his head. He glanced at his own feet, and gasped. It was like he was in Alexandra's place. His toenails were lifting from the skin, distorted by the dark, but still visible by the eerie red glow. He saw the jagged spears of blood, glinting, a centimetre thick, blocking the ends of his toes. The translucent grey of his nails only slightly masked the colour, making it impossible to pretend it wasn't there. Crimson liquid splattered the edges of his toes and dripped onto the ground. .

Unbearable, indescribable pain shot up his legs and he yelped. It took all his mental energy not to swear. He stared at the ceiling, took in the greyness and dark, hoped his breathe would calm him, and pushed his feet into the ground.

_Make the pain end… please – I'm safe… sort of._

The fear didn't end. Varric buried his face in his hands. He didn't want to know where he'd get his first growth, if Alexandra's was any indication.

"We don't understand the patterns yet," Meredith Incarnate said. "We don't have enough research."

Varric gulped as his surroundings returned and hugged his knees. He didn't want to look at his feet, in case the hallucination hadn't ended.

Cade's crying sharpened.

"Help me!" The other man cried.

"Am I just _research_ to you?!" Alexandra shouted.

Meredith Incarnate laughed. "Only partially. You're helping to build an army too."

Alexandra sobbed in response.

Too much was happening at once, so Varric waited as the guards footsteps started to muffle. That

"Pain! Kill me!"

The other prisoners agony was starting to become annoying. If every night was going to be like this, he'd have to start sleeping more during the day.

Varric edged to the wall where Alexandra was, still careful to avoid his feet.

"I know you're there, Varric," Alexandra spat. "Don't talk to me, _please_."

Varric paused. With all the adrenaline and heightened emotions he hardly felt sleepy anymore. ""If this is about Broody, he's very out of it."

"You'll wake everyone!" Meredith Incarnate growled from further away.

The screams muffled.

Alexandra sighed."Do you think I'm ugly?"

She held her breath for a moment but then the sobbing continued. It wasn't from physical pain anymore, but likely from being emotionally shaken and exhausted.

"No way, don't be so stupid," Varric said hastily. "You'd charm plenty of Redcliffe boys."

"This isn't a punch line to a joke?"

"No," Varric muttered. "I'm not good at this. How can I put this more delicately? If the castle hosted a ball, dance thing – whatever you call it in Redcliffe - I'd ask you to dance with me if no one else offered."

"You'd be my dance partner." Alexandra laughed. She sounded slightly happier through her tears. "But I doubt it's because you fancy me, so maybe Mamma wouldn't be very impressed."

"Hey, a dance is a dance. You don't get to complain, and your darling mother might be impressed by the fact I'm a published author," Varric concluded. He laughed at his own idiocy. "I can't find the word I'm looking for. Wow, that's new. You're a friend to me, Alex…. a good friend. I do heaps for my friends."

Meredith Incarnate reached their cell. "Hey. Quiet. I don't want more waking up."

They didn't answer.

"If a growth appears, just call my name, or my accomplice. I'm Alana. The other guard is Cass."

_Not another Cassandra…_

"Will you actually answer?" Varric asked.

Alana snorted. "Of course. Racket isn't necessary. It echoes too much, and we have fervid ears."

"Yours truly," Varric finished, and Alana left.

_The night shift must be harder, maybe that's why they're both female_, Varric thought.

"We're in prison cells." Alexandra mentioned, bringing them back to their previous conversation. "It's not exactly romantic. We're very unlikely to dance together."

"All the more reason to give you a whirl before we all expire and roll over in our graves," Varric said with a smile.

"That's kind of you." Alexandra hesitated. "I'd agree to dance out of obligation."

Now that the cell's other occupants had been rid of growths, the decreased noise was very welcoming. Varric felt himself get sleepier. "Whatever gets you out your chair, Alex."

Alexandra laughed. "Sleep well, Varric. Thanks."

"Anytime."


	10. Meaning

The sun poured through the curtain onto the opposite brick wall of Cullen's quarters. He covered his eyes, desiring to prevent getting out of bed as long as possible. The Inquisition may have a plan to falter the Breach's effects, yet the thought of all the other rifts was overwhelming.

The Commander sighed. Why did he have to dream of Evelyn even when he was not suffering from withdrawals? It was better than flashbacks, but still not restful sleep. Exhausted, he retrieved his copy of the Chant from the bedside table. Referring to scripture for guidance was not a task he had indulged in much since the Inquisition started. Like when the Mage-Templar rebellion erupted in Kirkwall, now seemed a time to refer to its wisdom.

In regard to Andraste's death, the Chant explained thus:

The loyal shield, broken to pieces, found only ash

Left to the wind and rain. And Havard wept

And took the ashes, still hot from the fire, and pressed them to his heart.

His ears filled with the song of multitudes

Raised in chorus, and before his eyes the dark skies parted

And Andraste, dressed in cloth of starlight and armored

In moonlight, stood before him, and he was afraid.

The Lady knelt at his side, saying:

"Arise, Aegis of the Faith. You are not forgotten.

Neither man nor Maker shall forget your bravery

So long as I remember."

At this, his wounds healed, and he stood

And gathered up the ashes, and carried them

To the lands of the Alamarri, away from sorrow forever.

The travels of Andraste were truly not far removed from the Herald, which made the excerpt both worse and somewhat inspiring. Cullen could understand the grief of Havard. His source of inspiration had been destroyed, and despite that the spirit of Andraste had said he was brave. The Commander wanted to be courageous too.

Placing the book back on the bedside table was a mistake. A pair of brilliant eyes met his from the middle of the room, part of a slim adolescent, although Cullen had never seen him around Haven before. The intruder had hollow cheeks, pale skin and a mop of messy blonde hair, largely obscured by a wide brim hat.

"For the love of Ferelden!" Cullen swore. He sat up at top speed and picked his sword from the end of the bed. "Say your name! Who let you in?"

"Hello." He said, fidgeting with his fingers. "I made you afraid, but I did not mean to. My name is Cole. I am a Spirit of the White Spire."

"What do you want with me?" Cullen growled. He sounded angrier than he had in a long time. "What do you mean you're a spirit? If you are a demon I demand you leave my presence and Haven immediately!"

The boy did not seem fazed by this. Cole stepped forward and placed a hand on Cullen's forearm. "You worry I am doing wrong, spreading hardship, breaking your mind, though I am not. I wish to help. A lot of fighting happened in the White Spire and I lost my friends. A demon, one of envy, tried to capture me, lock me inside, but I escaped. You… you are hurting."

"Help?" The Commander repeated dryly. "What is it to you whether I am distressed?" He didn't care he was partially undressed and hardly presentable. It made no difference if the boy was human, spirit or worse – he was a stranger and that made him a threat. "Tell me why I shouldn't lock you up in one of the Chantry cells right now."

"I can help you fight the one who wants to crush everything." Cole held up two daggers from his belt. "The one they call the Elder One. He is angry, a big fire in his body. It will destroy the world, destroy everyone. We must be careful. And, I can help you find the dove."

Cullen's eyes narrowed. Whoever this young man was, he knew more than his appearance suggested. Was the dove reference a lucky accident?

Abandoning his sword, Cole put his daggers away too, "Sorry. You do not know me. This is strange. I know you get frightened by the pictures, but I am not a picture. I want to help."

"I still do not trust you, so stay there while I get dressed. It is not a guarantee you can stay. However, I will find someone to keep an eye on you. Perhaps Knight Captain Rylen will find a space in the ranks, even if the applicant is almost, or utterly, mental."

"Thank you, C-Commander." Cole sounded relieved. "I will be strong. I'm good at fighting, sometimes, though I don't like it. I am confused about this having my back to you."

"Just do it. Sweet Maker."

Cullen didn't want to know anything more about the boy at this point. He put his prejudices to one side. Perhaps there was something to be gained by a person who had bizarre insights into his life without good reason.

* * *

Before the retreat from Alexius in Redcliffe, Cullen had looked forward to a snowy white vastness above his head, unblemished and Breach-free. When he tilted his neck to seek the sun he would find it, alongside a reminder that perhaps Thedas could return to normal.

That was not the case anymore. The journey up the Frostback Mountains was exceptionally freezing, perhaps a curse of his cynicism. Once he grew weary of the steady uphill bumpiness on his horse, Cullen traced patterns in the trees with his blade, still resenting his lack of sleep. The spirit boy named Cole was proven popular among everybody else, though he was not always visible. Like a toddler, he appeared and disappeared at unpredictable moments, but there was something charming in that. Cullen realized he wasn't sure where the spirit had gone for now.

"Keep it up," he called, "You'll get to rest afterward!"

He said this a lot, even when they stood at the red lyrium surrounded Temple of Sacred Ashes. It felt wrong to be here. The last time he'd weaved a path through this stretch of snow, _Evelyn_ had been in the world, a confusing stranger who had been let out of prison by a leap of faith. He recalled meeting her eyes not a few paces from this spot, surprised she was so young. When Cassandra and Leliana said they had a prisoner, he expected someone with far more blemishes and a malicious approach. By contrast, there were no demons about which was nice. He had expected up to a dozen.

And there was the destruction wrought by the Pride Demon.

"Everyone in position, like we instructed during camp," Cullen instructed, "Let's move, while it is quiet."

Soldiers, Templars and mages alike spread out in a crescent like formation around the half shattered wall. As they did, Cullen paced around to make sure they were the right distance apart and patrolled the perimeter to make sure no demons sprouted from behind corners.

"On three!" he announced. Like practice, he and Rylen counted down and the air filled with beams of bright light on zero, which dispersed much of the frost and warmed the area. The earth rumbled. The mages had their staffs to the air and the Templars had their swords to the ground were performing a similar ritual. The commander had never seen so many congregated in such neat formation with no shouts or curse words. Today was proof that the one common enemy was the sky. Perhaps mages and Templars could form a truce at last. It was unfortunately dull work, simply observing the surroundings, pacing back and forth, and calling out encouragement and directions.

He didn't get to watch the edges of the Breach shrink. It did not close with ripples and an explosion like the other rifts, exposing the true colours of the sky when it cleared. Unlike before, as though a cloud had covered it, the colours grew steadily duller. Cullen watched with a surprising emptiness as the pasty green faded to grey. There was no obvious indication that it was over except for stagnation.

He raised his sword once another minute passed with no change. "Disarm!"

The rippling of magic through the air dissipated. Mages gave haggard breaths and brought their hands to their knees. No cheers filled the air, only relief that a task had been done. Satisfaction wasn't the correct term for their expressions.

This was simply a delay, a block in the river. Soon enough the storm would begin again and chaos would run amuck.

Cullen smiled weakly, feeling withered and isolated as he imagined Trevelyan next to him, in each stunning detail of blond hair, porcelain skin, and vibrant eyes.

"This is going to cause some problems," she said, "I'm sorry I couldn't be here, that the Inquisition's plan didn't play out the way it was supposed to."

"Please rid yourself of that attitude," Cullen repeated. He cautiously tried to meet her eye, but he couldn't bring himself to even in a fantasy. "We are doing the best we can and… I don't want to be reminded."

"I wasn't saying you shouldn't try at all," Evelyn assured him, and with a surge of emotion she touched his shoulder, "I'm here now. What do you have to worry about?"

Pulling himself from his thoughts, he climbed onto his horse. When the Mage and Templars rested, and once they descended the mountains, Cullen didn't forget about Trevelyan. He missed a clear head, Eimear's stories of Denerim, and talking about ordinary matters.


	11. Invasion

Cullen lowered himself onto a stony ledge, wishing the frost could stop his thoughts bustling like the reverberation of song.

There was no plan. There were plenty of ideas on what the Inquisition _should_ do next, but no proposed strategy. How the Commander wanted to figure this out right now, but his brain simply wouldn't let him. Neither had anybody else, for that matter.

_How did Evelyn ever do this? _

He doubted he would ever know.

_How is Josephine coping without Evelyn?_

The Commander scanned the crowd for Josephine's gold sleeves, and spotted her clapping and dancing to a merry tune, grinning. It was difficult to tell if the emotion was a falsehood or actuality. Perhaps he would speak with her about how she was managing, just on friendly principle, after the festivities.

The smell of grilled fish wafted from far-off gleams of fires and Haven's blackened sky was littered with stars, but Cullen was in such a mood the exquisite sight was disillusioning. That darkness was skewing the Breach's true magnitude. Tomorrow the strange murky grey sky would return.

A plate appeared from apparently nowhere, held by Leliana.

"There," she remarked, placing it in Cullen's hands, "I thought if the meal reminded you of Kirkwall enough, you might forget about the horrors resting in the skies and around us, for at least the five minutes it takes you to eat it. I took the liberty to ask for a boned one so you had time to enjoy it fully."

"If I do not choke in the process, Leliana," he replied with a small grin, balancing the plate on his knees, "but thank you. Are you enjoying yourself?"

"I do miss Cassandra, more severely than I'd like to admit," Leliana confessed, "though I suspect that is the same for everybody in the Inquisition. We had dear friends that are now lost, maybe forever." She turned her kind gaze toward him. "It only makes this smaller victory all the more important."

"I wouldn't be so rash as to call it a victory," Cullen said darkly, peeling the skin from the fish with his fork, "More a small step to a victory. One of many, I hope."

Leliana ate a mouthful of fish before continuing, "That is still a victory, Commander. For a person with a broken leg, every step, no matter how sad and trivial, is one increment closer to a goal. When a man has nothing, the slightest movement becomes everything."

"_The deep dark before dawn's first light seems eternal, but know that the sun always rises_," Cullen repeated solemnly, not sure if he believed the Chant passage he recited.

Leliana, who was better versed in the Chant in any case, finished, "_Though the lands suffer a thousand wrongs, The Maker yet notices the smallest of deeds. _Do you not understand how it is the same?"

"Yes. In case you have somehow forgotten, I spent my youth singing hymns as well." The Commander pulled one bone off the fish. "My apologies. I am sorry about Cassandra. I miss her too. Why, if she was here I have no doubt she would make a snide remark about drunks, Varric would tell a long winded story and complain I have a too serious a look on my face."

"He wouldn't be wrong either, Commander," Leliana said thoughtfully, "You do have a too serious a look on your face."

Cullen picked out some bones with his fork. "I assure you it is not my intention to wander about like I have spent five hours – or a whole day for that matter - listening to Chancellor Roderick." Leliana chuckled, and he continued, "That is one of my least favourite jobs to do here, but I cannot shake the feeling that this celebration is practically meaningless. If Evelyn – I mean, the _Herald_, was here, we could well be celebrating the Breach being closed at this point. It saddens me that this is all we've managed in comparison. For all we know, the Breach could open again tomorrow. It is mad."

"That is the whole point, Commander." Leliana finished chewing and sat down on the ledge beside him. "Yes, it is disappointing, but there is little else we can do. It is in the Maker's hands now. All we can do is pray and hope, and make it look like we have our affairs in order."

"You mean even if we don't," Cullen corrected, and he felt his nails dig into his hand, "Pray to the Maker or not, we _should_ be doing more. I don't care how implausible or impossible it is. I don't care if it means we have to resort to – I don't know – burning the Chantry down like that bloody apostate, Eve- the Herald proved the impossible could happen, and we cannot lose!"

The Spymaster, bless her, didn't respond until the last of his frustrations had been let out. "Please Commander, do not make your job more tiresome than it has to be. It may be trying, but this rest is something that is needed. It is probably better we do not identify Evelyn as the Herald to others, since so many were praying for her to close the Breach."

"You're right," Cullen said wearily, "Leliana, I did not mean to…"

"Do not tire yourself anymore."

"Evelyn was just so-"

"_Important_." Leliana finished the ramble for him, "Yes. She was… and a friend to you, as well, a dear acquaintance to others."

Cullen stared at the Spymaster with imploring eyes. "She was the sort of person that you simply _know_ creates a large impact on everyone she encounters. That would have been the case whether she had a mark on her hand or not, whether she was supposedly touched by Andraste or…. Maker, I'm so sorry for putting this on you, Leliana."

"It does not bother me as much as you fear it does." Leliana managed a smile. "Do you believe she is at the Maker's side?"

"I… don't know," Cullen sighed, "I hope not, but there isn't much other explanation. From the reports, she simply vanished into thin air, something about a spell. I know a fair amount about magic and there are not many forms of it that can make a person disappear. If she was in the Fade I suspect her mark might help her get out, so-"

"Perhaps there is a means to figure out what the spell was," Leliana remarked, "still, it might be dangerous to search for the answer, as it was Alexius who caused it. Do you _want_ to know?"

The Commander took a small bite of food, before replying, "I do not _want_ to know. I don't want to hear she's dead or someplace we can no longer reach her, but for the sake of our cause… we _have_ to know. The ambiguity is upsetting everybody. Our plans will be easier to create once that fact is certain."

"I'm pleased you agree, Commander," the Spymaster remarked, "We can speak about it tomorrow after celebrating."

Cullen found this disappointing. "Leliana, you know I am in no mood to…"

"Eat, then decide," she urged him, "I will sit here if you like."

He sighed. Even if it was extremely tempting, he couldn't declare a War Council now.

"It is the same as Evelyn's fate," Leliana continued, "You may not want to celebrate, but you _have_ to."

"Yes," Cullen conceded, "I will try, in any case."

"Maker stay with you."

"That is not necessary." Cullen accomplished a laugh. "Though I cherish the sentiment. He prefers to stay with you. As I am no longer part of the Order, I wonder if He scorns me."

"He doesn't, Little Dove…"

There was an automatic assumption of who had spoken, a thought which couldn't be incorrect. His gaze travelled to little shoes positioned not far from Leliana, and then Cullen met her eyes.

"Red Archer Brooks, nice to see you again," Leliana said with an acknowledging nod, "I assume you've informed our Commander of your history with our enemy?"

Cullen stared at Leliana with a touch of anger. This was not the time to get defensive. "I do know." He mused, "Though from the sounds of it Miss Eimear left reasonably quickly – a wise decision, if there ever was one."

"Though you do not know why she joined in the first place," Leliana provoked, turning immediately cold, "It could have been anything. She could be a spy sent to infiltrate our ranks and destroy us."

The Commander sighed. "If that is the case, you may kill her Leliana, though for now she said she would cooperate." He turned to the archer. "What was your reason for joining?"

He'd been so focused on the Breach and the Inquisition that this very simple question was pushed to the back of his mind.

Eimear appeared guilty. "It sounded like a decent idea."

Leliana scoffed. "You see, Commander. She does not share the Inquisition's noble values. I say we lock her in one of the cells underneath the Chantry until she apologizes for the error of her ways."

"I do not think that is necessary either," Cullen said firmly, wishing Leliana would stop with the paranoia, "though, a _decent_ idea is most certainly incorrect if what Barris said is true, Eimear. What… possessed you to think such a ridiculous notion?"

Eimear glanced at Leliana blankly and took a step closer to Cullen. "There was a guarantee of safety and power. Are you saying there is no appeal in that?"

"There is no appeal if the intentions of your leader are vindictive," Leliana shot back.

Cullen abandoned his fork, not wanting this to escalate any further. "Leliana, I hate to exclude you, but may you give us some privacy for a moment? I do not think Eimear's fate is for you to decide, and I'd like to relax while I eat."

The Spymaster gave a long, hard look at him before softening her expression. "You are undoubtedly biased in her favour, Commander, but… farewell. I pray to see you among the festivities later."

"Thank you," Cullen said, both as a means of honest caring, and also a word of departure.

Leliana rose to her feet and Eimear watched the Spymaster until she was out of sight.

There was no opportunity for bliss in the middle of war, only uncertainty and judgement. If only Trevelyan could reassure him that peace was an option by the simple fact she existed, he wouldn't feel compelled to avoid this other young lady. The Herald's palm would silence more than his worry, but the world's despair.

"Would you like to sit with me?" he offered, gesturing to the place Leliana had abandoned, "I'd much enjoy the company while I eat."

Eimear seemed comforted by this as well. "I'd like that, Little Dove."

The two sat in silence. Cullen tried to rouse enjoyment from the succulent flesh melting from fish bones, but it was a feeble attempt for his mind was too depraved. He hated it.

"I have not been thinking clearly as of late," he confessed. "Perhaps if I was I wouldn't have allowed you to join the Inquisition without more thorough questioning, alas, I have a lot more responsibilities to manage than I'm used to. Perhaps my good faith is misplaced, though so far I am not convinced that is the case."

"Relax," Eimear said, "I am grateful you let me join the Inquisition. I just hope I can be useful."

"I'm sure you will," Cullen assured her, "You already are."

The moon was usually a calming sight. With every scrape of boots on the dirt, Cullen didn't raise his head. He didn't endeavour to find out if it was someone approaching him for an important matter.

He stayed very still and it was oddly beautiful to do so little. He allowed his foot to tap to the distant beats from the Tavern. He remembered what it had felt like to drink in there, wishing Trevelyan could share a story or two.

A long outcry from a bell rolled over the hilltops into his ears. He could almost trace the pathway the sound had taken.

Between this moment and the next, Cullen's body awoke from the grave. His eyes pierced the horizon, breath tense in his chest, begging for the chime to be a false alarm.

It wasn't.

The bell continued, ripping through the air like the rumblings of a volcano. Something was coming to Haven and it wasn't anyone nice.

They were under attack.

Cullen yelled what his throat fought against, still disconnected from the here and now, "Forces approaching! To arms!"

As the former Knight Commander dashed forward he caught glimpses of frightened town's people, heard the cacophony of hurried boots on the dirt and a gradual uproar of shouts. Orders. Terrified streams of villagers threatened to block his path, but Cullen knew what he was looking for.

As his boots stomped against the snow and debris, as his soldiers, the Templars and the mages assumed the positions they should around the perimeter; it became clear they might all die tonight. This could be the end of the Inquisition.

But even if that were so, it wouldn't be now.

As a last resort for comfort, he caught the glimpse of Trevelyan's eyes as he looked into _hers_, the one who had called him 'Little Dove', the naïve simpleton who believed the Red Templars had some kind of appeal. She was Trevelyan's ghost, haunting him.

"What is happening, Commander?" Josephine reached his side, sweat glistening on her face.

"C-Commander!" The world was spinning past so rapidly Cullen only focused on Eimear's voice. "Look quickly! Over the mountains! Up high!"

Leliana withdrew out some arrows from a few tents away and gazed upward. "She's right, Commander. Our enemies won't need to look for us any longer."

"But how did they find us?" Josephine inquired urgently. "And under what banner?"

"I cannot say for certain," Cullen replied.

The two skidded to a halt, paces away from the gates. All they could do was await the eventual ambush on the other side.

Josephine was as taken aback as he was. "I do not want to know what that means."

As instructed, Cullen squinted toward the apex of a mountain. Above the trails of their forces spiralling down and around the icy mounds like fire ants, he spotted their leaders. Behind the blizzard two figures stood atop the summit, with upright posture that suggested they were extremely proud of themselves. One was a blonde woman, possibly of Anderfels decent, in dark mages robes, surrounding herself with a vibrant barrier against the snow, and the other…

"Samson…" Cullen seethed.

"Who?" Josephine inquired.

"A former _acquaintance_, or a… I will explain later," Cullen said. He withdrew his sword, though words of inspiration failed him as he approached the gate.

What was his previous roommate doing here? The last Cullen saw him was when Meredith had turned into a Red Lyrium beast in Kirkwall three years or so ago. It was difficult to see their expressions from here, but it looked like they were _cooperating_ with each other.

Samson had a bloody great sword, one that looked oddly familiar in shape. Meredith's? No, it had been destroyed. It made so little sense that Samson was now related to the Elder One. Perhaps he had lost his head. He hadn't seemed awfully normal when he had been reinstated into the Circle, but Cullen had just put that down to addiction. This, he suspected, was something far worse.

Footsteps dissipated. Locating the source of the noise, he watched Leliana disappear to help a villager. Eimear, contrarily, had prepared an arrow against the string of her bow. "Tell me where to aim, Commander," she said sternly. "I won't fail you."

"Hold your position, Eimear." Cullen ordered.

Eyes ablaze with fury and concentration, she didn't fire. Neither was she out of control.

In that moment Cullen stopped comparing her to the Herald. She was closer to a phoenix, rising from ashes, her expression stony with a passion to destroy. He felt calmer making this distinction in his mind.

A thump jolted him from his thoughts, a bang from the other side of the gate. "Curse the Maker!" It was a familiar voice of a man, but Cullen couldn't determine the name. "That usually works."

"Is that…?" Josephine began, but the Iron Bull got there first. He pushed past them and opened the door, as a Haven scout assisted.

The warrior had short red hair and a small beard upon his chin sliced through a wraith. It collapsed with a screech and green slime splattered the warrior's armor. "I wish I could run inside and lock the gate, but that would ruin the hinges on it, don't you think?"

Despite the good effort, many more demons were finding their way to the entrance.

"Your Highness!" Eimear exclaimed.

_You can't be serious..._

Cullen's eyes narrowed in confusion. The skin on the man's face was covered in burns. If he truly was the King, he was barely recognizable.

"Come on, I don't need a fancy introduction," he heaved, his grin crooked. "If it means you'll listen to me though, go ahead. Although, if I were you… you _might_ want to worry about the approaching army of hyped up demons, and Maker, I hardly know what else."

"This is from the Elder One, isn't it?" Cullen demanded. He still wasn't sure what to call the stranger. Eimear's claim to his identity was ridiculous.

"More like the Evil One," the fighter chuckled.

"Treat him with respect!" Eimear yelled. "It's the King of Fereldan!"

The Iron Bull ushered the man back with barely a touch of his hand. "He doesn't need respect. Look at his face."

Cullen was half inclined to agree.

"Uh, forgive me, your Highness, for being so disrespectful or uh, unwelcome, but are you truly King Alistair?" Josephine asked, sounding flustered. She reached his side. "It is just… you do not appear much like you have been described."

The King smiled. "Yes, it's me! All the same Alistair, just without the crown, as you can see. I think I look better without it, don't you?"

There was an awkward pause.

"Err… hello? Why do I always have to spell it out to everyone?" His Highness said annoyed.

"How did you get here, Alistair?" Cullen demanded, trying to get as much information as possible. Finally the words were settling in. "How big is the army?"

"No _idea_," Alistair said dully. He sounded drunk. "I went the short way. When the Elder One left the Castle a group of Redcliffe villagers managed to set me free, told me where you were. Most kind of... died during the escapade. Anora was hiding with them last time I... The Queen, I mean. The Elder One must have finally figured out where you are – not before I got here first!"

The King sounded extremely proud of himself.

"We were trying to celebrate a small step towards… something…. yet it appears the fight has come to us," Cullen said slowly, feeling sick.

"What's the plan, boss?" The Iron Bull said.

Cullen clenched his teeth. The situation just got a whole lot more complicated. Right now, he wished he wasn't the boss. "Haven is no fortress," he explained. "If we are going to withstand these monsters we must control the battle. We have to get out there and hit that force with everything we can." He motioned to the trebuchets in the distance. "Inquisition! For the Herald!"

He stormed onward, not caring anymore about being clever, about being calm, or knowing all the answers -he didn't even know if anyone heard him- but Cullen didn't care.

"I've always wanted to fire a trebuchet," Alistair said with a gleeful smile.

As Cullen prepared an overhead hit to a flurry of demons, he wondered how in Thedas a bumbling idiot like Alistair claimed the throne.

* * *

Meanwhile in solitary confinement, crunching filled Varric's ears. "_Don't do that_, Broody!" he shouted. "I'm about to impale my stomach with one those!"

"Just eat it, Varric. It hurts more not to." Cade said, snapping away a corner of the red lyrium.

"You had one growing out of your neck, and you think more is a good idea?" Varric hissed. He tried to keep his voice down, but it was difficult when he wanted to take the crystal off the kid.

Cade stared at Varric, angry, his eyes as red as Solas'. "So?"

"It's only going to get worse! Do you want it growing out of you again?" Varric demanded.

The sounds of chewing answered him. "Maybe if I eat enough it'll just kill me by accident."

"No!" Varric gasped, and he shook at his bars. Even if this annoying kid died, that sort of attitude was contagious, and the Red Lyrium was infectious enough for all of them.

Alexandra kicked her bars. "Shut _up_, Varric!"

"Stop tempting me!" Varric protested, "You think being depressing is a good idea in this place? It is a recipe for more disaster. Trust me, I write stories and this is exactly how it starts."

Alexandra's voice was closer now. "Stop comparing everything to books. If you were strong enough to resist you wouldn't be making such a fuss! Give it a rest! We're all doing our best with what we've got."

"We've got _nothing_, Varric," Cade muttered, his voice more level, "Our families are probably badly injured or dead."

"Am I not your friend?"

"You're just the talkative dwarf in the cell opposite mine."

"Come on!" Varric groaned, "Fill me in on your life, then. It will pass the time."

Cade ignored him and crawled to his wall where lyrium was glowing brightly. He scratched one of his arms.

Varric felt a tingling behind his ears.

_Shit, that lyrium better not turn me deaf, _he prayed.


	12. Eruption

The satisfaction of watching an army get buried in snow cannot be undermined. It would have happened in slow motion if there wasn't so much urgency. There were cheers, but the celebration was short lived.

Cullen stumbled backward in shock as the trebuchet exploded in a blaze of fire, though that wasn't the only source of flames in the air.

A dragon with horrible black spikes was flying toward them, either to knock them out or eat them.

All logical thought left him as the horrific creature became clearer and uglier with every passing second.

"Sweet Maker." Cullen swore.

"Bloody hell! A dragon!" Alistair shouted. "Um, yeah, I think _that's_ a good reason to run away."

"You heard the man!" Cullen yelled, finding his feet. "Get back to the gate!"

He jumped from the raised surface he was standing on and almost crippled himself from the impact of hitting the ground. More demons were coming and they wouldn't last long with this wave.

The worst fact of all was that it wasn't just demons like before. This wasn't the same as a rift that had decided to cause chaos in the middle of a peaceful stretch of land. There were Red Templars, Red Archers, Red everything, and Venatori everything, and some bloody Grey Wardens too. That took Alistair by surprise more than anyone else.

His only chance for rest was disrupted by this interruption, and who knew when a moment like it was ever going to happen again.

Revenge was in order…. once their safety could be secured, until then they'd do the odd combination of running away and fighting with all their might.

Wiping sweat off his brow, Cullen tried to make his strides as wide as possible. Alistair, the Iron Bull and Cole were in his immediate vicinity. The Bull tried to push Cullen along. He was limping slightly.

Sera and Eimear got inside first.

Josephine was on the other side of the gate, unable to turn away. She had sweat over her face.

"In all seriousness, can the Inquisition not run any faster?" she muttered, as they all entered, "This is feeling like it is taking days, not minutes."

"I am in humble agreement with that, Ambassador," Cullen said, only loud enough for the Antivan to hear, "but we must stay strong, no matter the severity of the blows taken to our army."

She shut the gate and some of the noise was muffled. He pondered on what dwellings remained in Haven were safe. Given all the houses were made of wood there was no chance of survival inside them.

"We need everyone back at the Chantry!" Cullen advised, raising his voice to a roar, "It's the only place that might hold against that… beast!"

"Hehe, I can think of worst things to call it." Alistair smiled.

Josephine was already running, "This is not the moment for good humour! Hurry." she called.

Eimear joined her side, shooting arrows at demons who had infiltrated the area. They were quickly getting out numbered.

"Hurry up!" Eimear roared.

"There are villagers. They need help." Cole said.

"We can't accommodate everyone." Cullen shouted, and he felt awful for saying it. "If there are people on the way that's all we can manage."

"This is messed up." The Iron Bull said.

Cullen agreed in his mind, but out loud all he could manage was a yell as he swung at a Red Templar.

"If this is Samson's doing," he growled, blocking a counter attack with his shield, "I will personally ensure he dies and I shall do it myself if there are no other volunteers!"

The Red Templar, badly wounded, cackled as blood and shards of red lyrium burst from the injuries, "You need to get to him first."

"What is he doing?" Cullen groaned as he was sliced across the arm, but he smashed his shield into the enemy's face, "Is he enjoying the stars up on that…." there was a clatter of weapons colliding, "…Maker forsaken mountain peak of his? Is that what Samson does for fun nowadays? Is that how he _likes_ to spend his time? Sitting around, doing nothing…" he gasped for breath, "…ordering around a bunch of Red Templar freaks?"

"Funny," The Red Templar was extremely wounded now. The two men hunched over to recover from their injuries, gasping, "General always said _you_ were the one sitting around doing nothing."

_No, that is not true!_ _Even if it was, Samson is the worse of two evils, he's the culprit here. _He wanted to say. Samson was the one who had been doing nothing with his life, begging for coin and whatever else it was. There was so much secrecy, so little Cullen could have done to help. It had fallen apart so slowly and yet it didn't seem like much time in his memory. Now Samson had become this angry terror and there was nothing the Commander could have done to have prevented it or done any better….

Just like Evelyn was gone and there was nothing he could have done to prevent that either.

The rage came with more force than the grief and guilt combined, it blinded him until there was nothing more than the need for vengeance.

Cullen roared almost as loudly as some of the demons and was about to give the final blow when a pair of large Qunari hands held onto the sides of his ribs and lifted off the ground.

"_Bull_?" Cullen shrieked, turning around, still trying to flail with his weapons. Sure enough, the Iron Bull carried the Commander like he was nothing more than a chair.

"Bull! Put me down! I have a personal vendetta against these Red Templars!"

"Don't we all, boss." Bull grumbled, breaking into a run, "Let's get you in a big Chantry, with lots of nicer people, and then you can vendetta against anybody you want."

Cullen growled and let his arms fall to his side in defeat, as his sword and shield nearly slipped from sweat beneath his fingers.

* * *

Varric didn't really need to go that badly, but he wanted to get away from Cade. It was amazing how much he took privacy for granted. After he locked himself in the garderobe, a memory returned to him, one so bright it was indistinguishable from reality.

"You'd be my dance partner. Mama would love that." Redcliffe's words echoed in his mind, and the dream followed her voice.

Varric was suddenly in the room where the Herald had disappeared, Redcliffe castle, a suitable location as any to have a hallucination. There were people all around, normal folk tapping to a jolly tune, in pretty dresses and suits. The lights were bright, and the tint of sweat filed the room, air thick with excitement.

_Now's as good as time as any for a party,_ Varric thought hopefully. It was such a nice sight he didn't even want to think about the prison being where he actually was.

He looked down at the floor. Varric was dressed in a navy blue suit decorated with gold buttons. In front of him, Alexandra was in a frilly dress with a corset. She probably was built to wear one with how abnormally unhealthy she looked. Her hair was brushed into an elegant bun and a golden necklace framed her neck. She looked vibrant and healthier here.

Alexandra giggled as she took Varric's outstretched hand.

"We don't have much time," she murmured, her lisp barely understandable in the crowd. "Can you think of much else to do while we have the chance?"

Varric walked her to the middle of the dance floor, "Not stepping on your toes is a good idea," he joked, "though you really couldn't find anyone else to spin you in circles in this bunch?"

Alexandra shook her head, but she appeared to happy to care, though Varric noticed as her eyes turned red and a horrid pink mist began to cloud her features. Her heels suddenly stomped like a pile of plates being dropped to the floor every step. Confused, Varric looked down. He expected to see dance slippers, maybe with a cement weight or chains dragging them down. Instead, there was a cluster of crystals bursting out from the surface Alexandra's bare feet. There seemed to be half a dozen of them, an inch thick, four inches long. Smaller ones branched off from the main. They may as well have been new shoes. Her pale toes were nowhere to be seen. Not even her ankles were spared. They glistened in the ballroom light. A pool of blood was on the ground.

Varric was about to swear or scream or both, when the room in Redcliffe castle vanished with a flash of color that could have induced a seizure. He kicked in front of him. He had to try and disconnect from this experience.

_Clang!_

He hit the bathroom wall.

"What's going on in there?" Royle asked.

Varric gasped as the claustrophobic cubical returned to him, the grey, green and blue as unwelcome and depressing as ever. There was something else though. The back of his ears burned. The picture threatened to overwhelm – the blood, the red…

"I'll be t-there in a s-s-second…" Varric stuttered, looking at his hands. They were shaking, "Oh Bianca, this isn't the sort of story you want to hear about, is it?"

Sweat cooled his face, but it only added to his feeling of sickness. He stood, swaying, and reached for the sink. Nearly tripping over, he unscrewed the tap and threw his hands under. The ice jolted him, barely. His head spun slightly slower.

The dwarf's stomach had other ideas. It lurched. Varric leaned over the sink and blacked out.

"Did you just be sick?" Royle asked.

Varric kept the tap running, but didn't answer. There was horrible burning through his throat up to his mouth, and it tasted grosser than that. Red lyrium shards dirtied the sink.

Royle unlocked the door and wrenched it open.

"Fantastic," he muttered. "Last throw up of the day. I'll make sure Ian gets to you next time."

Varric didn't ask what that meant. He was still trying to recover from his dizzy spell.

* * *

Dashing the slope to the Chantry had never felt longer. The thick smoke, blistering fire and exploding chunks of hut flew across his vision, distorting the peaceful Haven behind recognition. It didn't matter that Cullen was being carried like a child by the Iron Bull. No protests of how he could run just as fast convinced the Qunari of what had to be done. He had to endure.

They were almost there. A figure, a human stood near the Chantry doors. Was it a villager? One of his soldiers? Cullen could only assume as he dodged a blast of magic. As his head swum, Cullen threatened to pass out. He had to admit, if he had been running maybe he'd have actually collapsed.

Roderick's pale glower was identified just as Bull's boot crossed the door, though his face was bloody and disfigured. The scraping of dirt became echoes as they met the high ceiling interior.

"There you go, Boss." Iron Bull said, and Cullen's boots met the ground at last. He placed his sword and shield back in their place on his back, to bring a hand to the wound on his arm, drenching his palm in blood.

He blushed, "I… I'm sure I'll thank you later, but right now I am angry!"

"Good on you, save it for the people who we're gonna take down." Bull replied, obviously getting annoyed.

Cullen seethed in response, though he could only hear his own ragged breathing. Many fearful faces stared at him from the ground, waiting for his next instruction. The room was a blurry mess for a few moments. For a time, the Commander barely cared.

"You're going to let Samson get away?" he growled, "That… monster. He is the one we should target! Forget the Elder One, or whatever all of this is! He's as human as the rest of us, still looks it anyhow, so we must wound the ones who are vulnerable!"

"Goody, so we know the name of one of these bigots?" Alistair chimed in, sounding excited in the same way an intoxicated person did, "Do tell!"

"Later!" spat Cullen. He had no intention of recounting his personal history of Samson with anyone right now, "Just know that if he has the daring to show his impetuous face, we must kill him on sight."

The Commander hadn't thought on Samson for months, and had pushed most of his resentment and anger away, but the combination of all the stress and horrors had made him forget the small ounces of patience left for the man.

Right now, only one goal mattered – surviving… and destroying "General" Samson. That spiteful traitor had no right to hold a title of importance in this war.

A thump interrupted his raging.

Cullen turned to see Cole holding onto Chancellor Roderick, "He tried to stop a Templar. The blade went deep. I… I'm sorry, Commander. He is going to die."

_All the important, good examples to the masses are being lost to this insanity, _Cullen thought frustrated.

If the Inquisition didn't hinge on feeble hopes, everyone would leave. Yet, it seemed they had less than that right now.

While Roderick responded, Cullen paced the Chantry, unable to smile at the many villagers, mages and Denerim dwellers. Rylen, who had been tending to the wounds of the masses, caught his eye and got to his feet.

Josephine looked worried, "Have you seen Leliana, Commander?" she demanded. "I do not recall when we lost her, although regardless of her crucial connections around Thedas, it would be nice to have a friend's company in this dire circumstance."

How could Ambassador Montilyet talk about friends _now_?

"If she is still out there, we cannot go back Ambassador." Cullen said, very tired. It did not match his thoughts. He wanted Leliana to be hiding somewhere, perhaps talking to one of the other many people in the Chantry, but he was too exhausted to explain or feel. There was very little time to confirm anything.

"Let me bandage you, Commander." said Rylen.

Cullen nodded. He wanted to say thank you, but his thoughts were thick and incoherent. Even if he knew what he wanted to say it would probably come out wrong. The commander hoped the compassion in his eyes was enough. By the look of focus and the quick application of dressings from the Knight Captain, Cullen thought talk wasn't necessary. Faint gratitude distracted him from the pain of his cut up legs.

Cole interrupted, "I've seen an archdemon. I was in the fade but it looked like that." he said.

The dragon, yes… the situation was so out of control Cullen's nerves would not stay down.

"I don't care what it looks like. Its cut a path for the army," He said angrily. "It'll kill everyone in Haven!"

"The Elder one doesn't care about the village. He only wants his enemy out of the way. I don't like him."

"You don't like…" Cullen went quiet. He _really_ hoped Leliana was inside. If she wasn't, his next suggestion would be outright permission to kill her. "We can cause one last slide."

"Wouldn't that destroy Haven in the process?" Eimear asked, suddenly appearing like usual. She had bandages, on her arms, fingers and one ankle, but was otherwise standing.

Josephine stepped forward, hands on her hips. "We cannot be so rash when there are people dying and our numbers already pale to what is out there, Commander. There must be another alternative."

"I'm afraid not, Josephine. We're dying, but we can decide how" Cullen said sternly. "Many don't get that choice."

"Haha." Alistair laughed, his light tone returning. Everyone turned. The sound was incredibly out of place. The Herald may as well have been in his place. "Call me optimistic but dying isn't the first priority on my to-do list."

The Commander thought that 'optimistic' wasn't the word he would use to describe the King of Fereldan.

"Yes, that." Cole murmured. 'Chancellor Roderick could help. He wants to say it before he dies."

_Say what?_ Cullen thought impatiently.

Every face turned to Roderick, who was now sitting on the ground. He appeared more exhausted than any of them. There was serenity about his wrinkles, like he had waited to die for longer than what this incident indicated.

"There is a path. You wouldn't know it unless you'd made the summer pilgrimage as I have." He began, taking large breaths in between "The people can escape. She must have shown me… Andraste must have shown me so I can tell you."

"Please explain as quickly and clearly as you can, Chancellor." Josephine said, kneeling to his side, eyes full of concentration.

"It is a risk, but we may be able to find safety while the Elder One is distracted." Cullen said, more to himself, but it helped to say something out loud. "Inquistion - follow chancellor Roderick through the Chantry! Move!"

"If the Inquisition is meant for this, I pray the Maker is on our side." Chancellor Roderick said, his tone weak and breaking.

Cullen barely heard.

Others who had eavesdropped on the conversation were getting to their feet.

"What will you do, Commander?" Josephine asked, as men ran past. "What ought we to do about -"

"They'll load the Trebuchets. If we're going to have a chance we need a distraction." Cullen said slowly. "We… cannot afford to risk the lives of hundreds in order to save one, even if she is one of ours."

This time his thoughts matched his voice. Grief stabbed his insides as cleanly as if it had been another physical wound.

Rylen moved away from Cullen and started to bandage one of Alistair's arms. He had been looking confused the past minute.

"I'm good at those. Well…" the King chimed in, but he fell silent. He looked solemn. "The Evil Git wants the Inquisition as well as me, but I don't… I mean, two leaders are better than one, right?"

Alistair looked at Cullen hopefully. This half delirious King was suggesting the two of them provide the distraction?

_The King of Fereldan wants me to fight alongside him_? he thought, amazed. He looked to Josephine.

Eimear stepped forward, "I can guard someone if someone volunteers to look for Leliana, Ambassador." she said quickly.

"That would be incredible." Josephine said breathlessly, "You are very courageous, dear lady. Your help is most appreciated."

As interested as he was to hear the outcome, even deny her voyage, Cullen had to pull his attention away from Eimear's plan.

"I cannot allow any more to die by my feet." Cullen said firmly. "Will you keep those who remain in order, Ambassador?"

"You are better at these decisions than I, Commander." The Antivan was gently suggesting Cullen be more confident and relax, even in this high stress situation.

"Yes." he gulped. By the way Sera joined Eimear's side and head toward the door, the two girls were going to search for the Spymaster. "It would be rude of me to disregard the King's orders."

"I said _stop_ with the King bigotry." Alistair pleaded. "It's Alistair. Really, Commander. Don't look up to me. I'm just a Fereldan ex-Templar with a hatred for pure evil."

His Majesty couldn't have picked better words. Cullen suddenly saw Alistair with more than just mild unease. The half burned fool was suddenly as close to him as Barris or Knight-Captain Rylen, perhaps even more. Any Templar, with the exception of the red ones, was a friend of his.

Knight Captain Rylen had moved away from Alistair, signalling their queue to depart.

"As am I." Cullen replied slowly. He wanted to halt Samson, and blow up the Elder One in the process, but that probably wasn't going to happen. He desired to find Leliana and bring her to safety, but that wasn't his job. What he could do was stand by Alistair's side and give Haven the best chance it had of escaping the fight, "We cannot blunder any longer. Let's go!"

The question remained of who was the blonde mage alongside Samson. If Cullen was lucky, maybe he'd discover the answer.


	13. Teamwork

"Excuse me, lovely Cass," Alexandra said, referring to the guard who had taken over for night patrol. "I have a favour, if it isn't much inconvenience."

Varric couldn't help but wish it was the Seeker was allowed to patrol the prison instead, but he had to admit Redcliffe was good at stroking the egos of the right people.

"I haven't heard manners in a while," Cass sounded like she was amused too, "Fine. Spit it out."

Varric lift his head to better eavesdrop.

"If it isn't against the rules, can I join Varric in his cell?" Alexandra requested, ever so politely.

Varric had to put in a great deal of effort not to yelp in surprise, not knowing if he felt overjoyed or simply exhausted by this proposal.

_What the hell has gotten into Redcliffe?_ he wondered.

He peered at Cade opposite him, but the kid was lying down, facing the wall.

"Why would you need to do that?" Cass asked. Her voice was a lot smoother than Alana's, but it was still intimidating.

Alexandra had picked her target well.

"It'll free up extra space for a prisoner," she said plainly.

Cass hesitated, "Bad things have happened when we've let prisoners co-exist." She rationalized. "If you can you promise I won't find decapitated heads…"

"Do I appear murderous to you?" Alexandra inquired.

Cass's armour clunked. Perhaps she had crossed her arms, "Nobody does initially." She stepped forward. "I'll let you, but if I see any hanky panky you're going straight out."

Alexandra sounded composed, or emotionless, "Thank you."

_Is this really happening?_

Varric waited in disbelief as Alexandra's cell was unlocked and she came wandering over. The sight was startling. The girl's eyes were bright red, only a flicker of grey remained. She looked more like a demon than a person, almost frightening. Her dress was smudged with blood, either from violence or menstruation, Varric didn't want to know which.

"No blood, right dwarf?" Cass warned.

He nodded and cringed as the stinging behind his ears intensified. He didn't want to touch them. It had been like that for hours.

The door clanged and Varric watched in awe as Alexandra sat next to him, almost as though he was seeing the female species for the first time. They'd never been so close before. He tried not to peer at the black on her dress, not wanting her to feel more uncomfortable than she inevitably already did.

Cade had obviously heard the noise. He was facing them, his eyes equally frightening.

"Why _did_ you do that, Alexandra?" Cade murmured.

Alexandra glared at him and red came from her mouth as she spoke.

"I don't have to explain myself to you. You clearly wouldn't take it well."

"I _really_ hope you don't ruin my dream of sleeping." Cade grumbled in an undertone.

Alexandra gave an odd hiss, "You wish. It would provide entertainment, wouldn't it?"

"I doubt either of us is going to sleep." Varric said slowly. "We better get used to not having privacy."

Cade groaned.

Varric flinched as Alexandra lay down behind him, and wrapped an arm around his stomach. There was a glint of body temperature, but she almost didn't _feel_ human either. Her hand was so pale, skeletal, her human fingers so much longer than he was used to. The dwarf simply lay and pretended to ignore the protests in his head to move away.

The want for human compassion, the craving for touch, was indistinguishable. It was also nauseating. Varric desired _her, _but whether it was from sheer loneliness, boredom or a genuine likening was an impossible task to compute.

"And there goes the last of my sanity." he said softly.

Alexandra gave a small giggle, but there was no telling as to why.

Cade rolled over, "Just shut it so I can sleep."

"Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?" Alexandra teased.

Varric shuddered as the girl ran one of her long, slender fingers through his hair. It felt… nice. Such a contrast to being in pain… the stinging didn't lessen, but he would take what he got. He scratched behind them. With horror, he bit his lip, he felt the points of spikes.

"Yes," Cade answered. At least the kid was honest.

"How old are you, Alex?" Varric asked.

"24." Alexandra answered. "You?"

"Older." Varric said, filling with guilt.

"By how much?"

"You'll regret asking if I tell you."

"Fine," Alexandra said. She paused. "Your ears."

"I know," Varric said.

Alexandra traced the wrinkles on Varric's neck, and he flinched as she whispered in his ear, "I want to escape my head." her lips made it so she nearly spat in his ear. "Do you understand?"

Varric simply nodded. The hallucination of her smile, giggles, maroon hair and dress was confusing. It almost seemed like it was real, but it couldn't be, Varric could still feel her body behind him, feel her legs near his.

_I don't want to be separated. No way in hell._ Varric decided in his head.

Varric grabbed her arm and gripped it very hard. Alexandra needed protection and his jokes, not another encounter with a cruel minded male.

"Are you okay, Varric?" Alexandra asked softly.

Varric shook his head, "I want to escape my head too."

Miss Redcliffe, thankfully, didn't ask why.

Yes, Varric was getting sick. This wasn't what he had expected going insane would feel like. When Bartrand had been under the influence Varric imagined it was a lot of not being conscious. Still, it needed as much attention as a cut on a leg, or the blood that would drip down from the back of his ears in a couple of hours.

Fingers trembling, Varric pulled his notebook out of his pocket and re-read what he had written so far.

* * *

The fight had been long and tiring, but Cullen was glad to have a small but strong team.

Alistair finished aiming the trebuchet when the dragon flew reappeared from overhead and wind temporarily deafened them.

"I refuse to be that monster's dinner, in this life, or the next one, if there is any!" Cullen shouted, and he yanked Alistair's shoulder. "Run!"

They both dashed back toward the gate, the commander put his sword away to allow for more speed, but not fast enough. There was a burst of fire and with a robust force they collapsed onto the ground. Debris from the explosion rained onto their backs and smoke filled their nostrils.

When his head stopped reverberating, Cullen stumbled to his knees. Alistair moaned. From up close, it was clear how disfiguring his burns were.

"Get up!" Cullen urged, while he too was having trouble.

"Easy for you to say. I'm still dead from my last fight." Alistair grumbled.

Not hesitating for a moment, Cullen lifted Alistair up by the armpits and the armor cut into his hands.

"You're not dying tonight, your Majesty. Your life is worth more than mine." Cullen growled, but something caught his eye. There was a black shape, a thin figure coming out of the fire.

Alistair turned, and suddenly found his feet.

"Oh, here comes the parade." The King said grimly. His eyes were shining with hatred, contempt.

"Is that…" Cullen began, but to be honest he wasn't sure what he was looking at.

Alistair didn't seem to either, and tried to keep moving, "Quick – before I fall over again."

Still very curious and drained from the after effects of adrenaline, Cullen's steps were not nearly as fast as they usually would be. The shadowy figure appeared to be speedier in any case. Unable to stop himself, desperate for information, he kept glancing back.

What beheld Cullen out of the terrible licks of flame was the strangest creature he'd ever seen. It was odder than any demon. More like a mixture of a troll, a golem and red lyrium all at once. This _thing_ had a badly damaged face and menacing eyes. For a moment, Cullen was immobilized with fascination and interest. What in the Maker's name was it?

"Weren't we meant to be running?" Alistair hissed.

Cullen put up a hand to silence the King and withdrew his sword.

"If that means you'll be left without protection, I'd sooner die." he said strongly, though honestly he was intrigued by whatever was following them. If it had an inkling of conscience, it was worth engaging in conversation.

Alistair yelped as the dragon came running up from behind him. It had far more spikes than it appeared from far away and was over four times their height. Cullen had never been so close to one before, smoke billowed from its pointed teeth and he squinted so they wouldn't itch.

There was no way to escape now. They were surrounded.

The giant lizard roared, spit flying.

"Enough!" the strange creature roared. The voice could have been from the dragon it was so deep. The mystery that had emerged from the fire held out his hands and its reptile was silenced.

"Inquisition," the towering thing continued, voice booming. "You stand before the throne of the Gods like you can stop its Ruler from taking His rightful place. No more."

"Your ramblings mean little to me!" Cullen shouted, finding his voice and strength, "I have many questions, and so long as you're going to be civil, I want them answered!"

"Brave words from a cunning mortal and fool," the thing rumbled, "You and your King will kneel to the will that is Corypheus, decree your forces to the Elder One."

"Kneel?" the Commander repeated, disgusted, "Elder One or not, I chose who I kneel to, thank you, and you are not one I wish to worship, monster." He took panicked breaths, "The Inquisition will not rest until you are ashes beneath my feet."

"Yeah!" Alistair's encouragement was nothing short of bewildering, "I don't kneel to anyone that doesn't have a crown! Even if you did, it would look atrocious on your ugly head." he withdrew his sword too. "If you have a lengthy apology for messing with me, now's your chance!"

Corypheus stepped forward, "You…" his eyes turned to Cullen, "What do you know of the Anchor? Convey its secrets if you wish to see daylight again."

"For starters, I'd have to know what this mythical anchor is!" Cullen shouted, hardly knowing what the 'Anchor' was, feeling relieved they hadn't been attacked yet. "You are not providing a good case for why we should join you, Elder One!"

"The mark your Herald possessed, the one that was designated to me." Corypheus announced, "It matters not if your Inquisition decides to stand alongside the righteous God. When a true God shows Himself, the people always bow."

"Is that 'true God' supposed to be you?" Cullen repeated disdainfully, "Maker preserve me. That's… something I'd rather not have to manage." He hesitated, his attempts at mockery fading, "Do you know what happened to the Herald?"

"Fools," the Elder One grumbled, "The Herald perished within the walls your King no longer strides in. May you not meet the same fate… I offer you one more chance to submit."

The Commander was terrified, but this conversation was not over, "And you…you know that for sure?" he said it to catch the Elder One off guard, "Very well. Is Samson working under you?"

"The General is raising an army to crush the world," Corypheus said, to which Cullen felt another spike of anger, "As before, kneel if you do not wish to perish like the Herald. This is a fight you will lose."

"Who else is working for you?" Cullen demanded, realizing that not answering Corypheus's questions were stalling him, "Who was the mage with Samson atop the mountain? What is she up to?"

"You met her forces in Redcliffe," the Elder One said.

Unable to process the information right now, Cullen yelled, "What is her name?"

"But this marks the end of your unwise distractions." The creature boomed, "I will begin again; find another way to give this nation a God it requires. You both must die."

Cullen and Alistair looked at each other and their eyes may have been one of the same. Cullen peered at the mountainside where snow appeared, the trebuchet. If he could just get close enough…

The next moment happened so quickly Cullen hardly knew what happened. There was a burst of fire from Corypheus's palm, a hard force to his ribs and a scream. The handles of the trebuchet were now right in front of him. He had been propelled the perfect distance toward it. The yell didn't come from Cullen, but King Alistair. He could guess what had happened, but he didn't want to look. He couldn't, not yet.

Alistair had pushed Cullen out of the way, taken the blast. The King of Fereldan considered Cullen's life more worthy, but the commander couldn't accept his fate. There was justice to yield.

Cullen used the last of his hand eye coordination to fire the Trebuchet. It released with a rattle and fling.

"I hope you like being buried under ice, Corypheus!" Cullen said loudly, as the large bolder went flying.

There may be a chance to save the King, he thought.

Cullen turned. Alistair was shouting, sobbing, rolling on the ground, but most of the fire had been deflected by his armour. It was obviously still taking its toll. Alistair's face was raw, red, with a mixture of black and raised white, purple blisters. He definitely looked a dead man. His eyes were half closed, his own tears inflicting more pain and stinging. The most important fact to grasp was Alistair was alive, and Cullen had no intention of leaving him, even if it was torture.

"I'm sorry, Your Highness." Cullen bent down on his knees and lifted Alistair over his head. He cringed at the weight, begging his knees to move. "I won't let Fereldan's rightful Ruler be squashed by a dragon."

"I'm already squashed, Commander." Alistair said between groans.

Cullen didn't take another look at Corypheus or his creature. He stumbled, vision hazy. It was slow, agonizing, and uneven. He almost fell over a number of times, his feet moving inanely.

Then it all gave way.

A rumble came from beneath the ground. With a crash, the wooden floor boards collapsed. There was a great deal of pain, shouting and the scene vanished from view.


	14. Snow

Cullen shouted and grabbed his leg, regretting the decision moments afterward. It burned and stung like acid had been poured inside and he was in so much agony he was amazed he'd blanked out for even a second. Cullen's leg was twisted funny, covered in blood. He shouldn't be surprised as he'd been hit badly on the way down, but it was too easy to hope for miracles when there was close to nothing left.

Gasping, he gripped the rocky ground in an attempt not to move. It appeared they'd fallen into a narrow passageway underneath Haven. It was very dark and cold. Cullen found Alistair sobbing. The King had made it to his feet, and as difficult as it was to see, it looked like his Highness was holding snow to his face.

At least there was a clear way forward. His heart pound as he looked down.

"Are you alright, Your Highness?" Cullen asked, nearly wheezing from pain.

"I… I can't feel my face anymore. It's just…" Alistair paused. "Sorry about your leg."

"It isn't pretty." Cullen admitted. "But it isn't like we have time to woo some poor ladies tonight."

"Hehe… I doubt my mistress would care. Anora would, mind you. Too bad everyone's dying and… the end of the world and all that."

His tone was so defeatist and depressing, even in the face of a joke.

Alistair picked up some more snow as Cullen tried to stand, but his voice broke into a shrill scream which didn't sound like his own. He was in so much pain he could barely curl his toes, let alone get on his feet.

"Maker help me." Cullen swore. "I think my leg might be broken."

"At least it's not your neck." Alistair said. He moved back to Cullen and held out his arm. "Let's go. We've got to try find the others. Which way do you think they went?"

Cullen sighed. Alistair's face nearly looked worse now some of the initial inflammation had gone down. The blisters looked like empty pockets of skin.

It was quite unnerving. Vivienne would probably be able to help, any of the mages. The commander realized, perhaps too late, that he shouldn't have been so harsh on them. In this war lyrium was a valuable resource to a large percentage of the enemy, maybe he was a useless pawn in this chess match for Thedas.

Bracing himself for pain, Cullen gripped onto Alistair's forearm and was hoisted to his feet, nearly falling over again as his bad leg lolled pathetically behind him.

"I won't be the best guide in this weather but let's give it a try. We head for where the Chantry might lead."

* * *

"Curse Andraste!' Cullen groaned. He screamed as he fell on his hands. Blood splattered on his back. Alistair had gotten the last demon. They had fought it off the swarm in a comical manner, leaning on each other for support, but it could only do so much. They'd sustained even more injuries, their armour was getting close to falling off. There was the sound of Alistair putting his sword away. Cullen wiped his on the ground before he did the same.

"Sorry, Commander," Alistair said hastily.

The Commander held up a hand, "Do not strain yourself. You can call me Cullen. If we're not going to freeze to death we have to keep going."

"My face won't let me freeze." said Alistair.

Cullen groaned. He had rarely felt so crippled and pathetic. He stared at the glowing green monstrosity above his head, wishing he could crawl, but the pain was too much for that. There was no time to be noble.

"Can you help, please?" Cullen asked through gritted teeth, not liking this lesser role.

"That's what I do." Alistair said, and he slowly yanked Cullen to his feet. The rift above them fluctuated. The king looked over his shoulder. Behind the inflamed skin, he looked worried.

"Climb onto my back."

Cullen was flabbergasted.

"A-Are you serious?" he demanded

"Very." Alistair nodded, "I know we're both in a bad way, but let's not make it very, very bad. Get on."

Almost falling back on his face, Alistair bent his knees and hoisted Cullen up. They were going to make a run for it, well, try to. All that was managed was more stumbling, but it was more consistent than before.

* * *

Alistair groaned. Cullen watched in horror as the King's boots sunk a good few feet into the snow. They'd managed to get out of the passageway, but the blistering snowy wind was not a great comfort when both men were supporting injuries.

"I… think I-I'm going to go down in a second." Alistair grumbled, his teeth chattering. The king's knees started to shake, not just from the cold, but from the weight and pain of supporting a grown man on his back.

"It's been a damn good effort," Cullen agreed. He had felt guilt with every step Alistair had made, it was somewhat a relief that it would stop. "If this is the end for us, Alistair… I hope you were happy with how you lived your life. We fought until the end. Perhaps its best we don't live to see what Thedas becomes. I hope the Inquisition lasts longer than we have."

"Y-Yeah."

That was it. Alistair fell into the snow with a yelp. Cullen shouted even louder as his leg was once again thrown out of whack. Why did it have to feel so excruciating? Struggling to breath with snow in his mouth, Cullen used the last of his energy to roll over, spitting out snow and groaning. He was cold, tired and sore.

"My only regret," Alistair mumbled, his voice nearly a whisper, "is that I couldn't make my mistress the Queen."

The words were saddening, deplorable. Cullen wasn't sure what sort of life the King had lived, but there was certainly more to his story than the rumours. There was more to life than writing of reports and sending out orders, much like his life in Haven.

It was a shame they hadn't spoken more, yet Cullen couldn't, wouldn't give up yet, even though he desperately wanted to. He had to fight until his last breath. Someone was ought to be looking for them, surely?

"INQUISITION!" he screamed, throat splitting. Now he was hurting in more places than one, "If there's anyone! Help!"

"We're still alive out here!" Alistair shouted. Their voices echoed, and sadly disappeared, swallowed by the shield of white.

Cullen tried to crawl forward with just his arms, but his hands sunk into the snow and had nowhere to drag, as though telling him to give up. Please, let them not die at the Elder One's feet. He wanted so much more out of life – when he was a foolish child he had dreamed of perhaps marrying despite living in the Circle. As the years went by it seemed more ridiculous and naïve, but if that was so, why did he still want it?

It was only now Cullen realized with guilt that he had wasted his life fighting, concentrating on a larger goal… perhaps there was no end to fighting; goals that big were equally silly too.

Alistair was shivering. "D-Do you have any r-r-regrets, Cullen?"

The King would want to know his pitiful mistakes, of course. The commander tried to move forward one more time, but it was too painful. His leg only pulled, pushing into a more awkward position. The white sheet of snow seemed to go on forever; it was almost like being in the tower of Kinloch Hold again. Instead of making it feel free, it brought forth a dread and unshakable sense of claustrophobia.

"I should have offered Evelyn a drink… when I had a chance." He murmured, closing his eyes to escape the impending flashback.

Alistair either didn't hear him or was too busy in his own head to reply. The King rest his head on the ground, and Cullen turned the other way into the distance. The enemy was still unknown to them.

Between shivering from the cold and the pain from his leg, it became somewhat of a relief when his hair became buried in snow.

* * *

Varric groaned, pushing the details of another nightmare away, not feeling rested, only heavy. He turned his head, his neck screaming from stiffness.

Crunching filled his ears. Cade was munching in the corner of his cell. He looked 19 all of a sudden from the sunken quality of his skin. A small girl with markings on her face and pointed ears was in the cell next to his.

_A new visitor. Just what I needed. _Varric thought.

Alexandra was lying next to him, staring at the ground. Her iris's had turned black. Had she slept at all?

"No one is talking to me anymore," the new prison mate groaned. The elf couldn't be much older than 10. She had wavy blonde hair, brown eyes and muck covering her robes, "Will you?"

Varric turned to Cade, who shook his head. Alexandra shook hers too.

"Is there a reason I should?" Varric asked.

The girl's eyes darted around.

"I'm Damaris from the Ralaferin clan. The Keeper told me to fight, so I did. It was a horrible battle… ugly, strong monsters. One of them got the back of my knee, see? It looks sore, doesn't it? I tried not to cry, but I fell. I was not swift and silent like the Keeper always told me to be. Demons surrounded me… then I woke up here. Do you like it in this place? Does it get better? Am I imaging things?"

Varric enjoyed the casual rhythm of his breathing while Damaris stared at him. The elf knew how to talk _a lot_.

He only knew how to answer the, 'does it get better?' question.

"Worse."

* * *

Cullen woke with a yelp. He was upright, somehow, and there was someone in front of him, a person in armour. A threat no less! Someone to torture him for information! He must try and escape.

Not able to completely open his eyes, Cullen pound his fist at the figure, his knuckles burning as near frostbitten skin met metal.

"Settle, Little Dove!" urged the voice, and it was immediately clear who it was. "It's just me! We've got you."

"The King is still out." A more elegant tone, Vivienne's, entered his ears next. "If he's sleeping I'd rather he stayed that way. A softer voice would be much appreciated, Commander."

"Where are you?!" Cullen shouted, still not fully conscious, half knowing he didn't make sense but not being awake enough to change it. "What is this? Where are we going?"

"We're heading back to the camp site, Little Dove." Eimear explained. It only now became clear that Cullen was on the back of a horse, positioned behind the girl. It also struck him that his leg didn't hurt nearly as much as it had before. "I had a long argument to convince Josephine to let me come out here. She was afraid of losing more numbers."

"His Highness might as well be. He looked more atrocious than that horrid monster." Vivienne mumbled.

There was a groan, Alistair. Cullen cringed as the movement of the horse buckled him slightly off balance. Awkwardly, he held onto Eimear's ribs, at least he thought that was what he was holding onto.

"Did everyone make it?" the Commander paused, quickly becoming more aware of where he was and why. "Is there anything I should know?"

"Only one detail," Eimear started. "We… the Spymaster was nowhere to be found, Commander."

Her voice was plain and quivering, almost like she wasn't sure what tone of emotion was appropriate. The fact she had even looked was helpful, as it left little room for speculation. If Leliana had been lost her body had either gone up in flames, she'd been eaten by that dragon or… she was alive and somewhere else. None of those answers were comforting.

"I see." He replied. Leliana and he had never been awfully close but he knew more about her than many of the other members of the Inquisition. She was a constant presence in the War Room and, even though some of her suggestions were ridiculous and rash, she definitely knew how to make some interesting conversation.

She'd tried to comfort him before all of this happened, and Cullen felt somewhat pleased that he'd retrieved as much information about the Herald as he could. The Elder One said she was dead… that was indisputable evidence, though the Commander wasn't sure how to explain this to anybody. He'd have to speak to Josephine.

The commander tried to move his neck, but it was too stiff and painful to do so. At least his leg wasn't at an unnatural angle. Did Vivienne heal him?

Suddenly, he remembered something important, his dream, the white of snow and a pair of blue eyes, only much murkier and fuzzy.

"I dreamed… of the apostate." He mumbled. "Solas, one of the Inquisitions previous members.. one of the ones who went missing. He… spoke to me, Eimear."

"Did he?" Eimear paused, clearly having no opinion on the half delirious ramblings.

"He said that I should try finding a fortress… type of place. A castle, I believe. Maker, I don't know. Andraste preserve me if it was real and not just a… dream. I don't know what to believe anymore. Solas said it was to the north of the mountains, and since we are likely to meet enemies anywhere there was no harm in looking. Ow, this hurts."

"Try to rest." Eimear urged him, not sure what to think either, perhaps thinking he was insane. "We can speak more when we get to camp."

"Is it far?" Cullen asked his head spinning.

"It couldn't be much further," Eimear said.

The Commander hesitated and brushed a hand over the top of Eimear's head, "May I… use your shoulders for a pillow, soldier?"

Eimear nodded. "Whatever helps, Commander."

Secretly, Cullen wished her armour was warmer, "Thank you."

This time when the former Templar slept he dreamed of nothing at all.


	15. Captured

Leliana had managed to retrieve a number of villagers from just outside Haven when two Red Templars and a Venatori fought her at once. Given their location, the Inquisition were far away and did not know where she was.

Despite wounding all of them, the Spymaster ended with worse injuries, was bound by magic, had her weapons removed and had no chance of escaping. The two men and one women helped to carry Leliana up the Frostback Mountains. Despite demons that screeched from around them, they did not attack.

Leliana had no choice but to stare at the sky and trees and flinched as her face was sprinkled in snow.

"I suppose you will not justify your actions to somebody who is a member of your enemy," Leliana muttered wearily, having given up, "but as a former sister of the Chantry I would be very interested in how you intent to excuse your crimes to the Maker."

"We won't," one said.

"Don't believe in the Maker," said another.

And "Shut up," was the third answer.

Leliana did keep her mouth shut for a time, "I am curious how you brutes maintain a sense of morality when you are destroying the very world you stand on."

They chuckled among each other, "Our morals could be to destroy."

"Don't feed into her talking. Let's just get her to the General." A Red Templar hissed.

"Good plan."

The Spymaster waited in silence, her eyes closed, listening as the sounds of demons eventually faded and the blizzard-like winds took over. Soon, her face had numbed and her ears were close to doing the same. Even when tempted to talk, she remained silent, recalling on the Chant of Light to give her strength.

* * *

It was a bizarre moment when she was placed back on her feet. Her surroundings moved unevenly as Leliana leveled her vision and found her center of gravity. She tried to shake out her wrists, but one of them was bound to the Venatori who had brought her here. There was still no escaping.

They were standing in a well lit tent and two figures were organizing through a crate of lyrium, blue and red, separating the used vials to the ones that were full, slightly on a slope, on the other part of the Frostback Mountains. As odd as it was to not be immediately murdered, nothing was stranger than seeing the two strangers in front of her. One of them looked like a Red Templar from the pale, sickly skin, though the only crystals appeared to be attached to his armor, not him. The woman was young, perhaps early twenties, with stunning blonde hair and freckles.

The man with gaunt features grinned at her from his chair, "What do we have here, brothers?"

The Red Templars gave Leliana a rough shove forward, "She's from the Inquisition, General. Not certain of her role yet, but she's from the Chantry. We thought she might be useful."

"Yeah, I get it," the General turned to his colleague, a mage in black robes, "What do you think we should do with the lass?"

"I am disappointed you have to ask," the woman said sourly. She rose to her feet and gave a small bow, her features flat, "Good evening, madam. We understand the circumstances are clamorous, but we are here to treat you with as much respect as our valued soldiers. As Tevinter's Champion, I bid you welcome, and I am proud to offer you my seat?"

"Introductions are a better idea," the General disagreed, putting the lyrium roughly aside with loud clinking of glass, "I doubt you've heard of any of us, we've kept ourselves hidden from your sorry Inquisition up until now," the man cleared his throat, almost in annoyance, "I'm Samson, but my brother and sisters call me General. This is Calpernia, a… trying sort of woman."

"I doubt you were sufficiently trained in etiquette with guests, Samson," Calpernia huffed, "perhaps that excuses your abject pomposity with what you call 'introductions'."

"Stop it," Samson growled, "She's a bloody Fereldan. They don't talk like your pompous Soporati in Tevinter."

In one part of Leliana's mind, she was trying to decide the best way to escape. In another, she wondered what plot these two villains were conjuring behind the scenes. They would not be accommodating to her for no reason. They also behaved suspiciously like a couple of a destroyed marriage might. It was bewildering, though also demanded more investigation. Were these two friends?

"If the two of you truly cared for the welfare of your captives," she started, "you will abandon your attack on Haven. You shall leave the poor villagers that still run about unarmed and provide me with blankets to stay warm."

There was a split second when the two leaders realized who they were speaking to was not native to Fereldan, but it only altered the look on their faces.

The blonde mage seemed like she previously held a position which involved serving another. As naturally as walking, she lowered her head, "Of course. As I suspect you are well aware, our attack on Haven was a deliberate means to undermine your forces. It is Corypheus' choice of when the ambush ends. For Samson and I, the majority of our work is done until our next instructions are given. Therefore, we have some authority on how we decide to consolidate you."

Samson gazed at Calpernia thoughtfully, "We do have blankets, though. Mind you, they've had potions spilled on them."

The blonde waved a commanding hand, "Retrieve them. Immediately Samson." she said briskly.

The Red Templar General got to his feet, almost fell over from losing balance, but stepped past the crates of lyrium to another set of materials in a far corner. Leliana thought she heard him say something like, "Lazy Vints, all of them are."

"The three of you," Calpernia focused on the Red Templars and Venatori who let Leliana in, "Allow me to guide her inside. You may return to the Healing tent and tend to your injuries. Vitae benefaria."

"Vitae benefaria." The Venatori said, and the Spymaster was propelled forward with the push of a hand. Leliana shook out her wrists and was surprised they were not restricted. The Red Templars also left, though more cautiously. Perhaps this could work in her favour. She could retrieve a lot of information for the Inquisition.

"Please be informed," Calpernia said, though it was more an order, "if you dare lift a weapon for a counter attack, I regret you shall not leave this camp alive. Now, how shall we address you?"

It was a pointless notion, as Leliana's weapons were taken by the Red Templars, but still, she agreed this was a poor idea.

"Sister Nightingale," she answered, pleased that she had this alias to rely on.

"Chantry garbage," Samson muttered with a smirk, and he handed her a woolen blanket, "Still, I doubt that's your real name."

"You are certain of matters which you cannot prove," Calpernia said, her steely eyes locked on Leliana. "Her name is of little importance. Not now. Is there much else we can provide to accommodate you?"

Leliana pondered on this. Ideally, she'd be back in her warm Chantry bed, but that was impossible, "Have the two of you been involved long?"

Samson snickered while Calpernia frown was more pronounced, "We have been acquainted for barely a week, if that is what you are referring."

"Yet it was somehow long enough for me to get on her nerves," the General remarked.

Leliana gave an involuntary smile at the nearly proud expression on Samson's face, "There is a particular charm about your discussions. I see this spark between you," she teased, "It almost looks like a relationship that would cause a lot of stir and gossip, as comtes might say back in Orlais."

Calpernia did not appear pleased, "Your fate shall be determined by the Elder One, not us, therefore I request you keep any inferences to yourself."

"Though if there were no suspicions to be had you would not have told me to be secretive," Leliana pointed out playfully, "I daresay you have provided me with challenge, regardless if you believe so or not."

She had to admit teasing the Inquisition's enemies was rather fun.

"Venhedis," Calpernia hissed, "Very well. You may be elusive, Sister Nightingale, but I shall inform the Elder One that you are not to be spoken to lightly."

Samson seemed nonchalant now the mage had let down her guard. He crossed his arms, his ankles and placed his legs on the table, "Clean out your mouth, Calpernia. The Elder One doesn't talk to anyone like that. You'd need to be dreaming something fierce before he does."

Calpernia shook her head and pointed up her nose proudly, though she impressively kept a perfectly straight back, "The inside of my mouth is untarnished, Samson, as you know, as you make a commendable, though relentless effort to keep commenting on."

Samson picked up a marker from the table, where a large sheet was being utilized as a map, "Of course it is."

Though it was the tone of a person who did not believe the comment at all.

When Calpernia wasn't looking, the General lobbed the marker at her shoulder. The mage's expression didn't change as it bounced into her lap, but she placed it back on the table calmly and away from the Red Templar's hands.

The Markers were all different sizes, as though they'd been collected from many places. The Spymaster thought that Haven's version of a War Table was far superior. This map was crudely drawn by hand with rough grid lines, measurements, angles, degrees and notes, in two different sets of handwriting. Although it was probably done for this mission only, Leliana still thought it was a rudimentary job.

_Though Samson and Calpernia, they are something else entirely,_ she thought, somewhat impressed.

The tactician board told little about who she was dealing with, besides the fact they were possibly great improvisers.

Leliana was pleased that sitting here with her enemies, at the very least, far more interesting than fighting Red Templars and Venatori down below.

She watched as Samson and Calpernia organized lyrium vials again, writing notes on some parchment and debating what Corypheus was going to do next. Sadly, the ideas were not anything fruitful for the Inquisition. They had done this on purpose, no doubt.

Then they began speaking of silly matters, like what to do about the lack of water, disgusting things demons had done and what they wanted to eat. Leliana took up the offer to sit in Calpernia's chair, though the parchment was removed from the table in the process.

"You're from Tevinter," she said, "although you are incredibly polite for a mage, more than what I am used to."

"Do not compare me to other mages, Sister Nightingale." Calpernia said stiffly, keeping a watchful eye on Samson, who appeared Cullen's age or older, "I am far different from them. Why else do you think the Elder One chose me to lead the Venatori?"

Leliana didn't answer that.

"Is the Orleasian Chantry built on as much shit as I've heard?" Samson remarked.

"On the contrary, it is a beautiful Chantry," Leliana said, "part of an even more magnificent city."

The General did not approve of this answer.

"That doesn't say anything on what it's built on, Nightingale."

The conversation dithered then, only making appearances occasionally. Placing their inhumane loyalties aside, Leliana decided Calpernia was an agreeable sort, though defensive, and Samson was just as careless as any Marcher, though he was more distasteful in his sense of humour.

* * *

The roar of a dragon marked the Elder One's arrival. Samson and Calpernia took one of Leliana's arms each, like trying to exert who had the most power.

"I like it better when I walked on my own, General and Champion," Leliana said with distrust, hoping they'd let her go.

"Yeah," Samson's voice was horrid next to her ear, "shut up."

She was wrong.

"Be civil." Calpernia instructed, "We must make a good impression – that means you too, General."

"Good thing I'm an expert at first impressions." The Red Templar murmured. His breath was atrocious.

Leliana felt both uncomfortable and exhilarated to be stuck between their banter. It was like eavesdropping on a private conversation. It seemed the two had all but forgotten she was there.

"Is that so?" Calpernia quipped, "You tragically failed to resonate to that extent on our first meeting."

"You changed your mind though, didn't you?" Samson sneered.

Calpernia muttered something incomprehensible in Tevene.

The Inquisition's enemies grips were equally firm and strong. Leliana thought if they were on the good side their handshakes would put Cullen and Josephine's to shame. The mage put up a small barrier in front of them to block the cold wind as the dragon lowered down, with Corypheus appearing seemingly from nowhere beside them.

The Spymaster tried not to look surprised, but the Elder One was neither what she was expected, or a pleasant sight. He glared at her, unblinkingly.

"You have procured one prisoner," his voice was without a doubt terrifying, "Very well. The meeting place has been called. We depart to Redcliffe Castle. Give your armies the instruction and the two of you will accompany me and the prisoner there."

"At your command, Elder One," Calpernia's voice somehow became more majestic as she gave a short bow.

Samson grinned, "What remains of Haven, master?"

"The scent of destruction and failure," The Elder One recalled, "There appears to be no survivors. All fools."

From the look in Calpernia and Samson's eyes, Leliana was certain they would have celebrated in their tent. Here, their expressions were stern, but the glitter of their gazes was unmistakable.

"Excellent, Elder One," the blonde smiled.

"We're heading on the dragon, then?" Samson inquired.

The one they called Corypheus loomed over the crowd, "Once the Red Templars and Venatori are given their new objective. Reassign a suitable member to guide them."

"Right away, master,"

Leliana was startled. Samson and Calpernia said that at the same time, and they marched down the mountain to a flattened area where many dots on the horizon were gathering, also in complete synchronicity. It was like the Spymaster was a flag they were going to wave!

Though she thought so long as Calpernia did the waving and not Samson, she would forgive them.


	16. Aftermath

_Authors Notes:_ Loverofallfiction, if you are still following along, I'm trying to finish this story. It has been so long I forgot what I had written so I went back and edited what I already had. There are only minor changes. The previous chapter is a major addition. It was fun though. This chapter has some changes too. Please enjoy!

* * *

"Commander! Are you fine? Are you well? Andraste protect us, I beg of you, please wake. Do not leave us so soon." Josephine demanded.

Cullen stirred from the back of the horse and peered down at the Ambassador's worried face. She looked a lot older, as though stress had accelerated her life. She was wrapped in a blanked and her hair was starting to fall out of its usual style.

Eimear jumped off the stallion first. "He's very tired."

Cullen made a mental note to thank Eimear, but something told him he wouldn't have to wait very long to do so. The camp was surprisingly small. There were only a few tents, but it did not seem like too many had been lost. They appeared to be sleeping at the very least, judging from the chattering of teeth and occasional snore. A small fire crackled from the centre, warming the few who had decided to stay awake: Mother Giselle and Rylen among them. They must have many questions, and he turned to Vivienne's horse behind him, realizing the one person whose well-being was more important than his.

"Is the King…"

"His face is no longer a heinous sight, Commander, as good as condition as your leg," Vivienne assured him, "thanks to my convenient talents. He might wake up if you speak any more, so I strongly recommend you don't, darling."

Cullen watched with a distinct overprotectiveness as Alistair stirred from on the back of the horse. Vivienne had done a fantastic job. He looked far more like the rightful King now, nearly all evidence of burned skin had vanished – what was left was scarring and a bruise, though it must still hurt.

Rylen got up to assist Vivienne with getting him down.

Eimear tapped Cullen on the leg. "Would you like to pass on any information to me before you sleep?"

It was strange to look down at her. Her eyes were glowing with the rebound of campfire light and her face was extra pale from the frost.

"I… I'm not sure I should sleep more." Cullen said uneasily.

"I'm just looking out for your welfare, Commander." Eimear said.

Cullen sighed and lifted one leg over the other, slightly taken aback by the ability to move again.

"No, Eimear, I am the Commander of the Inquisition, I have to…"

"When you are well rested, Commander, please let us know what happened," Josephine requested.

Cullen felt his jaw stiffen as his feet touched the ground. It was a relief, and odd to be able to support his weight again. He turned to face his colleague. "I'll explain when Alistair awakens, Ambassador. For now I will speak to Eimear. It had been a long night for everyone. I'm still not thinking properly."

The memories and thoughts of the Red Templars, Venatori, Demons and the Elder one were fresh in his mind, but not coherently connected.

"Very well, Commander." Josephine nodded, but she still looked worried. "What should I tell them? Many are unable to sleep."

"To wait a little longer," Cullen nodded, and thinking this explanation was somewhat lacking added: "I promise it won't be much longer."

He didn't want to discuss the Herald's fate, not now.

"I understand." Josephine nodded, but he could tell she was upset. The dynamic between them hadn't quite been the same since Cullen had taken on a larger role in the Inquisition. There was less chance to discuss lighter topics with her, and he more often agreed with Josephine's point of view than Leliana's.

He caught eyes with Eimear and she nodded, raising her arm.

"How about in my tent?" she suggested.

"So long as it's not…" he hesitated, realizing how ridiculous it sounded, "a devious plot to kill me."

"It isn't."

Cullen was at a loss of what to say so nodded. Slowly, they distanced themselves from the sounds of a fire and camp, and the familiar gush of ice filed their ears. It was much darker here. They tried not to look up at the sky which had twirling sections of green. It cast a slight tinge upon their features, reminding Cullen more of a dungeon than the outdoors.

Eimear's tent was separated from the others, but the inside blocked out a lot of sound. She let Cullen sit down on the sleeping bag.

"You said you dreamed of a mage." Eimear began, "do you think it is worth investigating the claim?"

"Solas does have a connection the fade so there is a chance there is some truth to the matter." Cullen said, "though I…"

"The dream was not only a dream," said a youthful voice, "He was trying to reach out, trying to help. The apostate still lives. He is with the others."

"The _others_?" Cullen's patience was quickly running out for the boy, "Yes, very specific. Do you follow anybody else around, demon?" he snapped, his eyes meeting the adolescent who was sitting just inside the tent, "The least you could do was knock before invading someone else's privacy."

Cole shrunk at the suggestion, "Sorry. I didn't mean to. I am only trying to…"

"Help. I understood the first time." Cullen said briskly, "Is there anything else you would like to share? Maybe the fact I'm hurting, because – I'm sorry if you have not discovered this yourself - it will be difficult to find anyone in the Inquisition who isn't!"

"Commander…" Eimear's features fell, she peered to Cole, "You can talk to me later, the Commander needs rest."

"The Commander is hurting," Cole said slowly, "I do not like his hurting. It makes my ears fill with too much noise, his voice is loud, louder than the others."

"Of course I'm hurting!" Cullen said spitefully, "_Everybody_ in this bloody Inquisition is hurting… It isn't news. It isn't any information we can use… Do you think we prance about Haven as invincible people, do you? Oh, Maker. Not now. This is quarrelsome. Leave me to rest, Cole."

He added the last so Eimear would stop staring at him, but it appeared to do the trick. The adolescent gave a frightened look at the ground and vanished in thin air.

"How _does_ he do that?" Cullen wondered, now it was quiet again.

"He's a spirit," Eimear said softly, trying to lower the volume inside the tent, "It makes sense that he can do that if he is not truly here."

"You mean a demon," he corrected.

"Still, he believes we should try find this… fortress," Eimear said, "unless you had a better idea?"

Where exactly they could go he had no idea. Their options were running out and their search was becoming more and more pathetic. Was any area going to be free of rifts? Could they just continue to make them dormant and delay their untimely demise? It was depressing to think about. He wanted to change the subject.

"I still think your liking me to a bird is beyond child's play." Cullen admitted.

Eimear placed her hands on her hips, consoled by the less work orientated topic. "Why is that?" she asked.

"Right now, I am anything but peaceful," Cullen chuckled, understanding how absurd the comment was, "I wish I had the right words to explain it."

There was a moment far colder than the snow when they met eyes. Eimear carried a most painful expression, one of confusion and longing. Was Evelyn speaking to him from the grave? Was Eimear her messenger? It was unnerving, uncomfortable and made him feel miles away, thinking of her smile and the way her hips moved funny when she walked.

"You've been behaving unusually since I mentioned the Herald." She said slowly, her expression regretful. "If I can take back the words, I would."

"It… It is painful for me to remember her." Cullen said awkwardly, "but that is beside the point. There were Red Templars all over the place back there, but you stayed with us. Why?"

The woman appeared disgruntled, "I told you. I spent two weeks training as a Red Archer under Lord Seeker Lucius and quickly departed. I was scared, confused, and Therinfal Redoubt was a nice place. Lucius was a man many respected. I didn't think that sounded so horrible."

"Then you…" Cullen tried to put the pieces together, but his head hurt, "Did you take the red lyrium?"

"We had to every day, so I had fourteen doses," Eimear said, "I didn't mind the taste. I promised myself to leave if the side effects became too much… and they did. Red lyrium covered the surface of my tummy and chest, but it was the nightmares I couldn't handle. It made the outside world seem so much safer than the insides of my mind." She paused, "Does that make you trust me?"

The Commander was truly too exhausted to say, "I don't know," he admitted, "Did you ever meet Samson?"

Eimear appeared bewildered, "Who's that?"

"The General of the Red Templars and one of our enemies," Cullen rushed.

"I only met Lucius," the Archer admitted slowly, "their army must be big enough that it has more than one leading them."

"Fantastic." He replied sarcastically. Even if this woman had briefly exposed herself to Red Lyrium, she appeared a kind person. Perhaps many Red Templars joined Corypheus out of fear, like most evil dictators…. Even if there were some who were loyal.

"Eimear," he said slowly. He didn't want to explain everything but he had to explain something, "I'm not certain this detail matters as much to you as it does to everyone else, I have reason to believe that the Herald is dead."

"Dead?" the woman repeated, "So… what do we do?"

"I have absolutely no idea," Cullen said, and he realized how alone he felt, "I suppose if Josephine agrees, we could create a memorial to her and pay our respects. Even if she is missing in action forever, it would still be pleasant to take out our time to remember her."

"Is there anything I can do?" Eimear wondered.

Cullen brought his hands to his face and tried to make the muscles loosen, but it wasn't doing much good. When he removed them, Eimear had not turned away from his face.

"I'd much prefer…" he began, but he hesitated, "I don't know how to express my judgements without causing offense."

Eimear didn't answer; she just waited for an elaboration. It was either ease his mind or go overload it with more stresses. Finally the commander saw fit to give it to her.

"You look so much like her." Cullen said, annoyed at himself. He was irritated he couldn't shake the image from his mind, frustrated he could not see her as the simple archer she was. "It makes me – it drives me to madness. I… every time I look at you I am reminded of what I couldn't do, what I didn't say. What could have been, and what will never happen now. It makes me feel things that no good man should."

He stared at Eimear's face, her eyes, finishing at her lips, but he did not stare for long.

"Like what?" the archer pressed.

"I didn't love her if that's what you're suggesting!" Cullen said loudly, but that was only half a lie. He shuffled his boots uncomfortably. "I suppose I feel like I _could_ have if there had been enough time."

Eimear gave a coy giggle.

"What?" Cullen demanded, at a loss as how an emotional confession was supposed to be comical.

Eimear shook her head in amusement. "I didn't expect to hear something that sounded so much like what _I've_ been thinking." she admitted.

"I see." Cullen paused. "Was there someone you enjoyed speaking to back home?"

"Not at home." Eimear paused; she looked out into the meaningless waves of snow, the wind whistling in her ears. "He's next to me."

She meant… him? That was awfully sudden. A blush crept up Cullen's neck, "You…" he stuttered, and he looked down, "I mean…I don't know why you would confess to such a whimsical fascination when I cannot _see you_!" his anger surprised even himself. "You might as well be invisible. I don't see how this would lead to anything constructive, just a physical manifestation of guilt and selfishness. At present the only element that lures me toward a deeper relationship with you is the fact you look so much like…"

Too lit up by frustration, he didn't see Eimear's hand getting closer until he felt it touch his face. Cullen jumped. Why was she reaching out to him when he had admitted to feeling desire for another?

The woman looked destroyed, as helpless as the tiny snowflakes still lingering in the tent. It made her features clearer, her brown eyes fiercer.

"Perhaps you cannot see me." Eimear said slowly. "But I'm not saying I love you, if that's what you're suggesting," she repeated the lines, "though time is a funny concept, isn't it? How can I help you forget?"

"Forgetting," Cullen snorted grimly. "I don't think that is possible, but perhaps I can learn more about how you are different to Evelyn."

The Archer pushed some blonde hair behind her ears, "I have an idea."

The Commander raised an eyebrow, "Should I be concerned with the contents of this idea?"

"Not at all, Little Dove," Eimear said softly, "I think it might help you."

As she was saying this, she removed the pieces of her leather armour. Cullen watched bewildered, wondering what on earth the woman wanted his hand for. Finally, she met his eyes, "Do not get too frightened, Commander,"

Slowly, she gently rolled up the filthy undershirt until her stomach was exposed. Cullen realized what he would see a split second before she did, and was half tempted to avert his eyes, but he didn't. The Commander was mesmerized to see that like Eimear had described, she had no belly button and there was no indication of when her ribs started. The surface was half red crystal, flat, luckily enough, like it hadn't been given a full chance to grow, although the skin surrounding the area was an odd mottled grey.

"My disfigurement can't close rifts," she said, finally, "it only sets me apart from others."

_Like Evelyn,_ Cullen thought, temporarily glancing at her face. To think this was on her chest as well. He didn't want to imagine it. "I find it difficult to believe that these side effects did not bother you. What if you turned into one of those… creatures? Would you have allowed yourself to become something that didn't even look like you anymore?"

"If that is what it took to save the ones I care about, to feel safe," Eimear said slowly, "I would sacrifice everything but my mind."

"Addiction takes minds slowly," Cullen said dangerously, "You never know. It could have taken yours, just like Samson."

"I never got addicted," Eimear said, "I was lucky. I don't feel inclined towards the stuff at all. Anyway… I shall let you sleep."

"Where will you sleep?" Cullen asked her, hoping she wasn't going to get hypothermia overnight.

"I'm going to keep an eye on King Alistair," Eimear explained, "If that means I do not get any sleep, so be it. Sleep peacefully, Little Dove."

Cullen found that even in armour he slept magnificently well.

* * *

Leliana had memories of Redcliffe castle from her times travelling with the Hero of Fereldan, but those times seemed far away now. Now she was miles above Thedas, closer to the clouds and Breach than anybody. It appeared her fate lay between the grip of the Venatori and Red Templar leader. Like before she was stuck between them, gripping onto the spikes of a black reptile that greater resembled an Archdemon. It was terrifying, and uncomfortable to balance on their knees and elbows on the flat surfaces of scales.

There was no input from her while flying through freezing skies, though the Elder One had matters to discuss. Whenever he spoke, Leliana thought angrily about how ugly he was and how much worse he sounded. This magister did not need to grasp on to the dragon very much, almost like he could fly. It was curious and bizarre. Why would he require a dragon if that was the case?

"What do we do with the Chantry singer, master?" Samson raised his voice over the gushing of the wind.

_I am not a Chantry 'singer',_ she thought.

Corypheus barely paid the General any attention, "She will be given quarters and plenty of attention so she will yield to questions."

Samson briefly glanced at Leliana with a calculating expression.

"May I object, Elder One?" Calpernia said, using her staff to block the harsh winds, "For what we know, our captive could be nothing more than a common villager. With respect to your wisdom, I must protest. She may not be worth our time and resources. Why not accustom her in the prison with the others from the Inquisition?"

_Ah, so that's where Varric and the others have been placed,_ Leliana acknowledged, though she wondered if her distrust showed on her face.

"She is important," Corypheus said, "I sense it. I revel it like the taste of smoke from the Black City. You will do as I require."

"Yes, master." Calpernia said with a nod, and they returned to focus on the scenery in front. It went on for so long, and so dully that Leliana fell asleep from exhaustion.

* * *

"The dwarf one is in here, your Lordship," a guard said. It was a new addition to the day roster, an unfamiliar voice.

Varric sat up as quick as the hairs on the back of his neck did and stared out of his bars, trying to figure out who had arrived. It was someone important. Maybe Alexius the fabled Elder One?

"I do not require your association." rumbled the voice. Not only was it majestic, deep and foreboding, but familiar.

Varric's heart jumped as he saw who the voice belonged to. It was someone he had encountered with Hawke!

It wasn't so much a man, but a _thing_… a magister, if he remembered correctly, the worst one there was. The storyteller forced his mouth closed so he wouldn't appear startled.

The creature was everything gross about Red Lyrium expressed in an entity. It had black wings, shards of red glass obscured his face and pronounced cracks for wrinkles made him nearly as ugly as Deep Roads scum.

"Corypheus?" Varric croaked, surprised to hear his own voice. It didn't sound how he remembered it.

"Indeed. You are now well and truly beneath me, dwarf. Now, forget your previous triumph." Corypheus rumbled. He was now in clearer view, right in front of his cell, facing him. Redcliffe, Cade and the other prisoners were gawking wide eyed, too stunned to even stutter. "Does this entrapment satisfy your every desire as it does mine?"

"Every day is Heaven, thanks." Varric snarled. The sarcasm didn't come through as seamlessly as he'd hoped. "So what's the story? Did you come here to show off a new scar? You run out of innocents to freak out with your creepy voice?"

Corypheus laughed. His voice sounded fuller and richer from when they had last conversed. "I have destroyed your Inquisition's headquarters." He sneered. "You ought to bow in servitude. Your Haven is no more."

Varric looked at Alexandra to try hide his horror, but she was too busy breathing out red mist to notice.

"Why should I bow? I'm already shorter than you!" Varric argued, "if you wanted me to look deranged there are better ways to do it."

Corypheus smiled. It made his face look even more messed up. "A Sister Nightingale is with us. She will help me find any others that stand in our way. If they still live, I demand their next destination."

"What are you talking about?" Varric shouted.

"Your Herald and King are dead. The Empress will be next. I may not have the Anchor, but the rifts will expand by nature of their continuance. It is not a requisite to the Old God's demands." Corypheus growled, his tone made Varric's bones threaten to splinter under the pressure. "There are other ways. The Inquisition only varnish the trophy of fortuity, a prize that dared not exist in their favour."

"I don't know where they are – how could I?" Varric said, but it gave him a fleeting hope that maybe some had escaped. "Who else did you see?"

"I will not entrust your apperception with knowledge you don't deserve." The creature said, "I shall leave you to molder like fury."

Varric didn't listen. "Is the end of the world really worth it?" he demanded. "Don't you have a better goal? I thought thousand of years in slumber would have augmented your imagination a bit."

"Remaking the earth is the only laudable objective." Corypheus said. "You cannot know how to revolutionize it when you have not been possessed by time itself."

"I'd get rid of you! Your vision is probably the worst I've ever heard, and I've spoken to plenty of politicians." Varric spat.

The Elder One chuckled. "Your final roots to reality will be severed in due time." Corypheus bent down. Varric moved back, too freaked out by his unblinking eyes. "Will you speak, or shall I have you tortured?"

"You can torture me more if you want, but it'll make it harder for me to talk," Varric said angrily. By this point Corypheus _was_ showing off.

"The elf mage is in this other room, Elder One." informed the unidentified guard.

Varric tried not to laugh. Now 'the Elder One' just sounded pretentious and stupid. Hopefully Solas would be able to piss Corypheus off enough that he won't return.

"I will visit another time, dwarf, when you are more likely to speak." Corypheus promised. He paced away toward the other end. "I hope your friends are of superior use."

Varric screwed up his face as Corypheus disappeared and lay back down. How many times did he have to say 'I don't know' honestly until someone believed him?

Cade stared at him. "What the hell… who…"

"Settle down, Broody." Varric assured him, "If you really want the story you're lucky we have time to kill."

Damaris' initial shock seemed to make its full impact. Her lip trembled for a moment and she burst into tears. The elf buried her face in her hands, rubbing her eyes. Cade was not amused by this.

"If the King is dead," the elf wailed, "how will Fereldan define order?"

"The Elder One will." Alexandra said darkly.

Between Damaris' crying and the loud banging sounds from the man in Alexandra's old cell it would be a while until any stories were shared.

The teen had started eating red lyrium non-stop, and Varric didn't bother telling him off anymore. There was no point causing more noise and chaos than what was absolutely necessary.


	17. Patience

Leliana remembered from her early Chantry days that bravery was not the absence of fear, though the ability to stride with fear at one's side, like a friend one had jousted with, basked in the light of the Maker.

As her boots echoed through the main hall of Redcliffe castle, she pretended her fright was carved on her chest, a pattern so vicious that it strikes dread in those who saw her. Her face would give no opportunity for second guessing. If nought else, Leliana prided herself in keeping a composed expression under dire circumstances.

This was not the Redcliffe Castle she remembered from a decade ago. The grey slabs stone flooring, the oceanic blue of the rug and the fire atop posts were identical, though the guards were no longer strapping young men or absent minded fools. There were many more, some with metal masks obscuring their faces, others, distorted shards of red, some marching, others in rows as though awaiting a fine guest, their leaders.

The Venatori and Red Templars.

This was the most significant change. Their very presence brought an invasive and unsettling churn to her stomach.

Calpernia and Samson had been gripping onto Leliana's arms for hours on end now, and like their hands were the tentacles of that terrible Broodmother, it did not seem like it would stop.

Samson was on her left, and his eyes had no white in them, as red as the crystals that burst from his lackeys, focused ahead, like he was sick of acknowledging her existence.

Calpernia, on the other hand, met Leliana's eyes, "I pray you do not agonize, Sister Nightengale." She said coolly, close enough to press into Leliana's face, "We are not far from retirement."

"_Retirement_?" Samson found this amusing, "Oh, I wouldn't be here if I could."

"If that is the truth of your folly," the blonde stated, knocking Leliana to answer Samson, "Your drive to bring justice to this plane need be feeble."

Trying to keep focused, Leliana recalled the Chant. It gave her strength and brightened the light in her soul. She could manage this. She had been shown mercy thus far, and if it was to get worse, so be it. She'd protect the Inquisition at all costs.

"Justice," Samson slurred, "will be curling up in a bed away from the sounds of your voice."

Leliana smirked. She wondered if these enemies held trepidation in their hearts, for their ability to ignore it was what made them able. Or were the whiteness of their knuckles motivated by loyalty to the Elder One?

"Can you not agree on whom to guide me?" Leliana offered slyly. "It does not only make me look bad, but the two of you as well."

The Spymaster did not wish to ask about what was going to happen to her. Any mention of it indicated she was interested, which had the opportunity to be interpreted as doubt. She didn't want to look like she had any of that.

There was no immediate answer.

"General," nodded a Red Templar as they reached the staircase.

Samson replied with a noise that was neither a grunt nor a hum of acknowledgement. This man was exhausted. And he didn't care if anybody else knew.

_This staircase is far too narrow_, Leliana thought, frustrated.

Calpernia had also figured this out, "Remain close, Sister Nightengale."

Tevinter's champion entered first, followed by Leliana and finally, Samson, forcing her into a compromising posture.

She dearly hated being in front of Samson. He reminded her of perverse fools who would try to touch her behind and make it look like an accident. If she wanted that kind of attention, there was always a tavern or Maker blind them, a brothel.

She wished they could swap places, even if she did not want to look at Samson from behind either.

Their footsteps sounded shallow on the wooden steps.

"You are misguided to believe your request is a discussion that would end peacefully." Calpernia finally answered Leliana, "Samson is small minded at his more fortuitous times. I hold uncertainty he comprehends when to allow the more capable to lead."

Samson sounded merciless, his voice a rough bark, "Don't flatter yourself. I'm only doing what Corypheus's wants. Not sure he trusts mages after all he's been through with 'em."

"I truly wonder if he trusts either of you," Leliana remarked, happy that she was turning them against each other, "After all, he left you together with me. Clearly neither of you are worthy to stand alongside him."

"Or he sees when a hostage needs a measure of vigorous consideration," Samson countered this immediately, though he said it with so much hate Leliana considered kicking him.

"You have cunningness and wit, Sister Nightengale," Calpernia praised, "but do not think your tricks will work so finely. I am years from blindness and you puppet to employ us for your own customs. Understand that we are not so easily swayed."

The top of the staircase was visible, though it made their voices echo more. Calpernia was an incredibly perceptive woman, and that was somewhat intimidating.

The General moved so near to Leliana he was practically right up against her, "See how she pretends like she knows what she's doing," he whispered, almost inaudible even in her ear, "all fowl shit. I know how she is… overplaying for…"

The Spymaster almost toppled over from the shock of being spoken to in such close proximity, though she wasn't the only one who wasn't happy about it.

"What are you mumbling?" Calpernia's hand tightened on Leliana's arm as she glared at Samson, "if you wish to declare your secret veneration for me, Red Knight General, thrill me, and do not falter."

The part of Leliana that wanted to uncover information about the two suddenly piqued.

"Falter?" Samson gave a guttural laugh, "My lady, I'd rather get beaten over the head by this one."

Leliana wished she could kick the Red Templar Leader in more places than his head.

"Perhaps the plan is decided," Calpernia said tautly, appearing tall even when she was average in height, "Will you obey the command, Sister Nightengale?"

For a moment, Leliana found the arm on the mage's side was freer, "It would give me much to dream about," though she remembered how much more satisfying it was to toy with their emotions, "However, before I do, I am curious of why Samson's comment makes you so angry. Am I right in guessing that you secretly desire his respect?"

Samson chuckled again, and his grip was looser. The sound must have counted for an answer in the mage's mind.

Calpernia growled and tugged on Leliana's arm, pulling until they'd reached to top of the stairs. Straightening her back as much as it would go, she pointed at Samson with a strong hand.

"Festis bei umo canavarum!' she swore, "Sister Nightengale. Strike him, and do not permit him to beg."

"Why, my arm is taken," Leliana couldn't hide her amusement anymore, flashing a winning grin in Samson's direction, "though I suspect you will get much more satisfaction from doing it yourself."

It was not clear if Samson was afraid, confused, amused or some mixture of all these emotions. He was difficult to read and had expressions that lacked detail.

For a moment, the Spymaster swore she saw smoke billow from Calpernia's robes, "You are not wrong," she admitted, "Though I will not be so reckless at such a time. We must get you to bed."

The Tevinter tugged on Leliana's arm, and she followed. Samson skipped a few stairs until he was trailing behind her again, grasping her other arm.

"That's right, read her a bed time story," he crooned, "Vints are used to that sort of crap, their heads shoved so far up their asses they can read their prized literature and history from it..."

"At least I am not uncivilized," Calpernia snarled, keeping her eyes on the door at the end of the corridor, "not to mention conceited, unpleasant and moronic."

Their many feet stomped on the ground and Leliana delighted in the racket they were making, even if it was muted by the stone flooring. Now if she could only get them into trouble… or perhaps exploit their weaknesses, she could make them listen to _her_.

"I have seen this behaviour many times," Leliana admitted, "I have a request for when we get inside."

Calpernia and Samson glanced at each other, but didn't respond until they'd entered the quarters and locked the door. It was more spacious than most rooms in the castle. A small, but neatly arranged bed was positioned to the far right, though there was a lot more free space than actual _things_ in the room. A fire in the fireplace opposite cast a delightful orange glow on the tapestry like paintings on the walls and the three lonely wardrobes.

The leaders let go of her arms and Leliana sat down on the bed, while Samson and Calpernia stood where they were, looking hostile.

"Any last words?" Samson teased.

"…Or unsolicited blackmail?" The mage agreed, hands on her hips.

The Spymaster removed her chainmail, "I would like to thank you for your company, and sparing my life so far, though I am unsure of how communications will continue here," she reminded herself not to donate information, "but I'd like to talk to Samson before closing my eyes and visiting the wonders of the Fade."

As much as she didn't like him, Samson appeared much easier to influence. He was a perfect target.

Calpernia looked a touch angry, though she handed Samson a pair of keys and turned on her heel, "Very well. Goodnight, Sister Nightengale. I wish for you to rest peacefully."

With a swift march her black robes floated out behind her, and the door closed.

Samson balanced the keys in a notch between his neck and armor and stayed where he was, staring Leliana down, "You want me to read you a story then? Cause I won't."

"My only desire is to talk to you," the Spymaster said pleasantly, removing her boots, "Do you know if there are nightclothes for me to wear?"

The General shrugged, "You don't need 'em."

His regard and tone was vindictive, not lewd.

"I see." Leliana sat up to pull back her bed covers. Maybe the Red Templar wouldn't be as easy to manipulate as she'd hoped, "I am curious. Like I said, I have seen similar antics with some of my friends – _do_ you secretly respect Calpernia?"

"The dragon didn't give you enough to gawk at?" Samson demanded, "My associates shouldn't matter to you. You care... why?"

"Samson, even somebody as well travelled as you must understand why." She paused but decided to play on the General's dislikes, "I am a trifling Chantry girl, of course, so it is my job to ask about trivial matters, isn't it?"

The General chuckled, "'Suppose so," he looked empty faced for a moment, "and if you're from Orlais I bet you're piled full of blockhead rubbish. Right up to the ceiling, and I'd knock it into the fire."

"Oh yes, and you shall add to this rubbish, my friend," Leliana smiled, sliding her feet under the bed covers, "now I ask again that you entertain this frivolous interest of mine. How deep does this respect go?"

Samson shrugged, "She'd never admit it, but we… wait…" the General tilted his head, like trying to think after getting a migraine.

Leliana had chosen right. The General was too ready to sleep. His mind was foggy and pathetic.

"Are you so bold to think I am a malicious person?" Leliana tested, trying to appear completely innocent, "Perhaps I wish to be helpful. You have no way of knowing. Would you be rude to a guest?"

"No shitty man or woman admits it," he said, "I'm not going to answer until you fess up something equally… stupid."

"Something odd," the Spymaster pondered on it for a moment, "You were not incorrect. I used to sing in the Chantry every week, sometimes once a day. Would you like to hear a song from Orlais?"

"No." the General paused, "That's not personal enough. I want something better and harrowing than that."

"Ah, so you and Calpernia have something _personal_!" Leliana said thoughtfully.

Samson crossed his arms, avoiding the question, "When did you lose your virginity, if you ever did?"

Leliana felt affronted. She understood what the General was doing, trying to show he still had control over the situation, but she couldn't deny the question without losing his trust. It wasn't anything overly important, "17."

The Red Templar General gave a toothy grin, "You're older than 17 then?"

It was an attempt at a compliment, but one that Leliana appreciated all the same.

"Yes, fortunately," she said, "so will you stop keeping the secret from me?"

Samson appeared suddenly intrigued by Leliana. He played with the keys in his hands. Slowly, with one of his thumbs he slid it through the round handle. It took a few repetitions of this until the Spymaster realized he was being rude.

Again, she couldn't help but feel offended, and Samson seemed to be able to tell.

"It was personal," he said carefully, "but not what I'd call _special_. Calpernia is… as guarded than this Castle. Not that I'm not used to that – I find it… funny."

"Will you elaborate on why, General?' the Spymaster attempted to not seem like she was bothered by his perverseness.

The General had finished talking to her, though he didn't leave the room immediately. He paced to one of the cabinets against the wall and scavenged through the shelves, one after the other, until he removed what looked like a nightdress.

"Not sure it fits," he threw it haphazardly over his shoulder, where it hit the floor, "but all the better for you, Sister Nightingale."

Leliana remembered Samson had originally not cared to find her a change of clothes, so this was a step in the right direction. Where she wanted the discussions to go, she temporarily forgot. Turning Samson and Calpernia against each other now seemed slightly less likely of an outcome, though perhaps she could convince them to be less hateful towards her and give up information, if she was careful enough.

It was somewhat unnerving when she heard the door to her room lock. If she needed to go to the garderobe, she'd have to by knocking until somebody came to unlock it.

* * *

"Oh my – I will offer my gratitude to Andraste for weeks to come. Commander, it is wonderful." Josephine gushed, her large jacket blowing in the morning air.

The whiteness of the sky was disturbed by the strange greyish matter that was now the Breach.

Still, it was dim enough to appear dormant. They didn't have to organize mages to return back yet.

"What is it?" Cullen heaved.

The morning had been atrocious so far. They encountered a rift on the path up the mountains and had lost three more soldiers trying to make it dormant. There wasn't much of the Inquisition left besides the mages, Chargers and the group of Templars from Denerim. Alistair, still in a lot of pain, was one of the few who were allowed to ride on a horse. He hadn't been well enough to fight either.

"There _is_ a castle! Your dream was no fanaticism!" Josephine said happily. "I have not felt this joyous since Leliana gave me one of her old necklaces."

The Ambassador had some stunning features, even when she was under stress. Cullen only managed to look sick when organizing his thoughts.

"You're joking." he blurted out, struck with disbelief. He hoisted himself up the mountain to where Josephine stood, his legs aching.

There was no mistake. Through the fog and down a slope lay an enormous fortress. From a distance it appeared deserted, though it couldn't be more than an hour away.

He smiled in return at Josephine's vibrant grin. It was Eimear he had to thank. She'd encouraged him to investigate, although there was one other meddling person in the Inquisition to thank, the demon child of the White Spire. Maybe he would swallow his pride if they were capable of using it for a location.

"There might be people guarding it, or worse." He mentioned, "as much as I share your relief, Ambassador, we can't get too excited yet." The Commander called over his shoulder, "INQUISITION! Our destination has been spotted! Keep up your guard as we approach!"

Despite the threat of danger, there were cheers.

"Good to hear, boss." The Iron Bull roared. He had been walking with Sera on his shoulders.

"About ruddy time, that's what!" Sera waved her arms around frantically, "Makers balls, I was ready to murder every friggin person on this stupid-head mountain!"

"Hey, leave the killing for demons." The Iron Bull recommended.

"I implore we have enough resources to fight if there is anything down there," Vivienne said, as smoothly as ever, "but even I recognize when it is appropriate to give congratulations. Well done, Commander. A faint glitter of hope might remain, no matter how trifling."

Alistair couldn't quite clap from on his horse, but he grinned instead, "Hopefully all that's left to do is trample on corpses and broken ribs."

"Yes, I hope so as well." Cullen agreed.

There was one in the front who had not said anything. He had deliberately avoided speaking to Eimear while hiking. She was too much of a distraction, and it was tempting to talk about Red Templars when around her, something nobody else wanted to discuss but them. She looked heavy lidded and exhausted.

"We cannot afford to get complacent." Cullen raised his voice, keeping his eyes on the archer, "but if the Maker is smiling down on anyone today, I hope it is us."

With difficulty from the exhaustion, they started descending the last of the mountains.

"Commander," Josephine muttered from beside him, "Once again, I apologize that I did not get much chance to speak to you at camp, though I presume you still propose to speak to me once we secure the premises?"

"Do not worry yourself, Ambassador," Cullen said wearily, though he agreed with her. He hadn't received the chance to mention the Herald yet, but there'd be a chance for privacy in the dwelling, "It is only a little longer."

He squashed his pessimism, as a 'little' had so far turned out to be longer than he'd expected.

* * *

Leliana was escorted down to breakfast by a number of Venatori, though thank the Maker they did not grab her by the arms.

"Sleep nicely?" one asked, surprisingly polite.

Sleep was reasonable.

"She'll talk." The other answered, leading the way, "We'll make her."

There was no talking and no complaining as she descended.

She didn't think she'd ever have a meal at the extravagant table meant for the King, and even less so surrounded by enemies.

In this main hall she had once fought demons summoned by a boy named Connor. In this room she's spoken to the Warden with much happiness, shed blood and fought for a righteous cause. Again, she wasn't supposed to be here. Like before, she wouldn't give up.

Leliana was no stranger to fighting, and no stranger to meeting resistance in Redcliffe Castle. The two long tables on either side of the room were identical, though it didn't smell the same. There was a rusty metallic scent that lingered, and dampness to the air. The smoke from the fire was almost nostalgic, the only detail that held any resemblance to her memories.

There was no Teagan, no Isolde, no Alistair or Morrigan. There was no warmth from the voices who spoke around her. Red Templars and Venatori crowded around like she was a caged animal to mock.

Leliana had never been offered a seat at one of these tables, but she sat obediently. It wasn't the food that caught her attention, but the man in front of her with red leather coverings and a heavily aged, though grievous face.

"Good morning, visitor," she said, forcing a smile.

Alexius wasn't fooled. He leaned forward in the chair.

"Yes, the Elder One was correct." He said, almost talking to nobody, "which should not be surprising. I recognize this young lady. From the brief instances I witnessed her here not long ago. She knows how to expend a bow and daggers."

"Bow and daggers, eh?" a voice slyly drifted across the room like smoke.

Leliana raised her head to where the sound had come from. Samson was leaning against the door closest to her, though Calpernia wasn't far behind, her eyes steely and distrusting.

"What are Corypheus's orders, Alexius?" he said.

The Magister surveyed Leliana curiously, ignoring Samson, "So you did not ache to fill your stomach while making it here?"

His voice was cunning, though Leliana had been so attentive and watchful of her surroundings it was like her stomach was forgotten.

"She shall be eating her words in due time, Alexius." Calpernia remarked, sounding hateful.

Leliana looked down at her plate, an assortment of smoked meat and leafy greens – not what she'd considered breakfast. It was more like dinner left overs.

"We are giving you one final day to tell us what you know," Alexius went on talking as though no one else was in the room, "as I am lead to believe you might be… reasonable. Select to cooperate and there will be many efforts to make your stay in the castle satisfying. Though the heart of this business is we will see fit to arrange… a weightier incident… if you make ill."

They were fools to think she would give up so easily.

Leliana knew what she would say, though she ate her food slowly and refused to answer until the last piece was down her throat. It was so bizarre to be the center of attention in a Castle, as though she herself was the Queen. That was one matter that remained a mystery. What had happened to the rightful Queen of Fereldan?

Calpernia hated her, truly. Samson looked smug, like he was hoping she would choke on the food. What had changed the mage's attitude so abruptly?

Alexius looked calm and calculating, which was more unnerving than the other two combined.

Leliana swallowed, "I will stay there for the rest of my days, if I must. I refuse to tell you what I know."

The magister seemed satisfied with her quick answer, "Perhaps in your youth you lack the aptitude to make the wiser choice," he calmly raised a hand, "Venatori, please return Sister Nightingale to wherever she came from. We will provide patience for this day only, though you will not last long afterward if you continue to defy the rules that are soon to govern Thedas. I beg you are not so reckless again."

"Like I said, I refuse to say a word," Leliana said, "and if I die, the information will die with me."

Alexius sighed wearily, "One day of kind-heartedness… I sorely qualm you deserve, but that is all we will allow. Until the evening, Sister Nightengale."

The Spymaster smiled as the Venatori encouraged her to her feet. There was one day of kindness. One day where Leliana had a chance to uncover information or discover more secrets about the state of Redcliffe castle. One day where she could relish freedom, should life go amiss from here.

As far as being a hostage went, this was one of her more preferable memories of it.

Before she turned away, Leliana saw the scrunched up freckles of Calpernia's face. Even from the other side of the room there was no doubt the mage was ready to explode, "It is not your youthfulness that makes you a fool, but your sore egotistical desolation." She seethed.

It echoed. A lot.

Samson clapped Calpernia on the shoulder, "Settle. She knows what she's doing. She knows the consequences, and she knows how we can wreck her pretty face into rubble." He chuckled, and his voice boomed, "Have fun in your big girl room, with your ugly fucking big girl furniture! There aren't any toys for you to play with!"

His colleague laughed, "True."

Leliana shrugged, "Your voices will be more than enough to pleasure me. If I can hear them across the room, I suspect they'll destroy the walls of the entire castle!"

"Rat shit you can." Samson said.

"I will not pardon your handling," Calpernia warned her, "though there are many who can, and they shall be all the more harsh to withstand when it ends. And I will look forward very much to witness it."

Leliana didn't know what the blonde was talking about, though there would be a lot of time to figure it out.

One day. Today. She hoped the rest of the Inquisition was still standing after Haven.

* * *

_Authors Notes:_ I think I enjoy writing Samson/Calpernia far too much. Hope you enjoyed the chapter. Shout out to silverisis for following the story. I wrote this fic with the intention that her Samson/Calpernia one shots are part of the backstory for this. They are 'canon' in my mind. Please check them out.


	18. Syncretism

The neatly bricked castle was almost as tall as the clouds and mottled grey above their heads, though the sun still glinted through to the green grass. He still couldn't help but be impressed that a bloody dream had led him here, not to mention he'd actually been convinced to investigate the claim with half an army behind him. He had not paid much attention to dreams before except for nightmares. Perhaps hope was not entirely lost for the Inquisition. Solas, as enigmatic as he was, had some purpose in this whole affair.

A rumble and a screech echoed like the a Hinterlands cave from inside one of the broken doors.

Cullen was not the only one who groaned.

"Is it honestly…" Josephine was lost for words, her eyes wide, face blank from bewilderment… or perhaps she was about to collapse from shock.

_Don't demons ever run out of things to scream at?_ he thought.

The Commander grasped the hilt of his sword, though he wasn't looking forward to the ache in his wrist that would follow after he lifted it. "They will not live for much longer." He breathed, menacing, "Inquisition! Those who are still walking without hindrance, prepare your weapons!"

He heard the sounds of scraping of blades or staffs, but not much of a heartfelt reply. Cullen didn't blame them, though was surprised that hooves were the loudest sound of all. It came from Alistair, who'd beckoned closer on top of the rich maroon stallion. "It's only one or two!" he was almost supporting a smile, "By the time you walk over there I bet they'll be gone."

The Commander smirked, pleased to see that the King was in much better shape. He almost shared the almighty glow of his previous title. "What makes you so sure?"

Alistair grinned and reached withdrew his own weapon, "Allow me to show you the 'I'm too bummed out from traveling to be rational anymore' strategy. It's pretty useful, I'd know."

"The what?" Cullen gaped, not sure whether he was impressed or thought Alistair was being stupid again.

It turned out the King was not. He turned around, "Miss Eimear and equally wonderful Inquisition associates! Cover me!"

There was no time to react, or maybe Cullen was too "bummed out" to do such a thing. He watched absolutely dumbfounded as the stallion neighed loudly and pelted forward, crashing through the broken door and toward where the demons were coming from, like it was a mere report Alistair was scraping from his desk.

He turned to Josephine, "It… that is completely mad!"

Sera ran past him, positively delighted, "You're the crazy, feather neck." She shouted, "We'll get 'em, we'll take them down easy poesy!"

She raised her bow as there was a crashing sound and an even louder cry from the demon.

A handful of Inquisition members followed, Eimear close to Vivienne. She did not even glance at him.

The Ambassador however, was smiling, "You are too precise at times. I think it will work as well… at least, I hope that is the case. He _is_, as bewildering as it is, the King of Fereldan."

"I am beginning to think he only wants to claim this Castle as his own." Cullen murmured, increasing the power in his step to catch up to the door, though by the spurts of blood and triumphant yells Alistair might have…_was_ right about the efficiency of this plan. It worked in this case, anyhow.

The long rectangular room was barely lit, grim and cobwebs decorating the corners like a tapestry, there was the sound of crunching bones. Alistair had directed his horse to stamp on the corpses of the three demons, now a wrangled mess in the pool of blood.

"That is certainly one means of dealing with any mischief, King Alistair." Vivienne said, looking as disapproving of the method as Cullen felt.

"Very … I hope that is the last of them." Josephine said meekly from behind them.

The King gave an encouraging tap to the horse's side. "Good girl, oh hello, nice of you to join us..."

He'd spotted them, casual as ever. It was more important to consider what demons remained!

Cullen shook his head, unable to turn his mental haze into words. Alistair, thankfully, seemed to understand.

"If I'm not good for anything, at least the horse can be, right?" Alistair's goofy grin gave more the impression of a bard.

"Lighten up, stinky face." Sera jeered, referring to Cullen.

Cullen turned from Alistair, the rest of the Inquisition members, who were stabbing the demons a few extra times to let out their frustrations for life, and let them fall on Eimear. She sheepishly smiled.

"We check for other demons." He said, leaving the corridor to find another entrance.

* * *

The walls of the Hall was tiled stone with a high ceiling and mosaic glass windows, a sight to behold, if it wasn't for the mess. There were planks of wood everywhere, but the fact it was unoccupied was such a reassurance they could ignore the prospect of cleaning.

Knight-Captain Rylen returned from a corridor. "Coast is clear, Commander."

"Praise Andraste!" Josephine sighed, practically falling to her knees in relief.

"I think we can rightfully call this castle ours, after all." Cullen smiled, both surprised and reassured.

It was early afternoon, the sun was not as scorching. The coolness of the air was a nice change.

He never wanted to clean. Ever. He also never thought he'd see the day when Josephine danced around the room in celebration, but here she was, clattering her shoes against the ground like it was First Day.

When they caught eyes, she stopped abruptly and cleared her throat loudly. She was embarrassed, but still professional.

"What should we do first, Commander?" She asked.

Cullen turned to the team and raised his voice, "Rest, by the light of the Maker!"

It was delightfully well received with cheers.

_As it should be_, the Commander remarked.

"If anyone else still has the energy," he continued, "help unpack or make the location slightly easier to walk in. I will not hold it against anyone if they wish to sleep on the floor, immediately or within a few hours."

"I like the way you think, fancy pants." Sera cackled and she hurried off without another word.

The King, now off his horse, paced around with his hands on his hips like he was considering auctioning their new, unnamed base.

"Can I keep it?" Alistair said hopefully.

Cullen chuckled, not able to tell if Alistair was joking or not…or talking about Sera or the castle. He was too tired.

Josephine approached Cullen's side and he rest his weary arm on her shoulder, "Let us find somewhere to speak." He murmured.

"And where you may remove your boots as well," Josephine said with much gentleness.

They paced so slowly to find a spare room that it was close to sleep walking. This level of exhaustion was inhuman, Cullen thought. But rest. That was what truly mattered.

They found an empty room, small, enough for a bookshelf, and covered in dust and rubble. It didn't matter. They sat down against a wall and sighed, resting. Josephine slowly removed her shoes.

"This is… far more walking than I think I've done in months," she sighed, "I will have blisters to last weeks, and there is not even a marketplace to get some delicacies."

"I'm sorry, Ambassador," Cullen sighed, his voice barely audible.

Their heads gently knocked together, though they did not correct it. They were both too drained of energy. It was easier to do this.

"What have I missed, Commander?" Josephine said wearily, snuggling closer to him.

"There was this…" the man hesitated. What did she miss? She'd been there when Haven was ambushed… though they were separated when Alistair and himself went to fire the trebuchet. That was it. There was… a discussion about Samson and a mage woman, "Back in Haven, I should say. Alistair and I came across this creature. The fabled Elder One the Ventatori had been rambling on about."

"Is that truthful?" Josephine was surprised, but it was the tone of a person who already knew the answer.

The images crossed his mind, though they were a blur, a giant black dragon, shards of red lyrium… The sensations of helping to carry a broken legged, near unrecognizable Alistair through the freezing snow were more vivid.

"He was… not a person." Cullen struggled to find the words, "a monster, more like it…. large, sentient, shards of lyrium on his body like they were organs – even now… so difficult to describe. He called himself Corypheus."

The very blood in his bones shuddered at the mention of the name. What origin was it? It certainly wasn't from any culture he was familiar with.

"I understand,' Josephine appeared to be making an assessment of the situation, "so this creature is our enemy."

"Yes." The word was more an exhalation.

The Inquisition now knew what they were up against, a foe, a monster with an even bigger army of monsters. It wasn't clear how, or if they would… if it was even possible to win.

Silence.

"And the Herald?"

"He said…" he felt tears fill his eyes, possibly from tiredness, "he was very certain that the Herald was dead. Samson – one of my old Templar…hm, he ceased to be my friend long ago, but…"

The pictures were too much, vibrant swirls of colour, sometimes removing him from the room entirely. Evelyn's toothy grin, the glow of her hand, Samson… the times they'd interacted in the Gallows… when he stood up to Meredith, and had questioned his own choice to take Meredith's side on the letter passing business. It was all a big mess, past or not.

"Calm yourself, Commander." Josephine assured him, "This has been extremely strenuous. We can organize what to do for the Inquisition when we have recovered from our journey. This fortress, at the very least, is isolated. I pray it shall take a while for Corypheus to find us. Of course, the ideal is that he never does discover our whereabouts."

"You are right, as always," Cullen smiled and chuckled. They'd never been too close. The War Table was an inseperable entity. Each member was equally close and just as equally kept apart, but that wasn't the case anymore. "I am truly so pleased you are Ambassador… to the Inquisition"

With Leliana, Cassandra and the Herald gone, there was only the two of them left. There was no direction left to go but closer together, and she'd been a kind and gracious friend ever since Redcliffe had been a failed mission. "… for Evelyn… and for me…."

Breath weak, morale even weaker, his eyes half closed. A decent night of sleep could not undo the cataclysm of disarray that had transpired in the past forty eight hours. Adrenaline had shortened the number of hours in the day… or made it longer. Which one? What was he supposed to be thinking about again? There was still so much to do.

"Would you like to discuss this another time, Commander?" Josephine wondered, though her eyes were growing heavy too. Her body was going limp next to him as the weight on his shoulder increased, and her outline blurred.

"No, no," Cullen urged her, but even as he said it his consciousness was fading. There were more pictures crossing his eyes than the room he could actually feel, "we can discuss it right now. I swear, it will only take a moment."

It only took one event, the smallest change, to rip apart the sky.

"Yes, a moment,' Josephine repeated, "is all that is required."

The Commander tried to nod, but his body wouldn't move. Instead, he fell asleep against the wall with Josephine, his head rested against hers.

* * *

"Master Tethras? Or Varric?" the voice sounded Orleasian, "I urge you, please wake. There will be a chance to rest, though it is not now."

Varric raised an arm to stop the figure shaking him. It was hard to see at first, as the cells were only lit by the red lyrium, and Alexandra's figure was shadowing some of it, but he slowly focused his vision.

Red, worried eyes peered at him. It wasn't Alexandra. It was an elf woman, pleasantly elderly and familiar – her wrinkles were more visible, and in greater numbers, the same with her grey hairs.

"What on … oh, Fiona. I was wondering when I'd get to see a pair of elf ears in my cell." Varric said, "It's a luxury, though not sure I'd call it pleasure. Should I give you a nice welcome to my end of this freaky shit storm?"

He sat up, as a more annoying voice pierced his ears.

"Who's she?" Damaris demanded, "Why is the dwarf talking to a mage? I'm hungry."

There was a thump and clatter. Cade threw some red lyrium at the elf, it bounced off with a sharp clang against the bars.

"Ow! That's mean!" the Dalish protested, rubbing her head.

Varric was glad that somebody had done something to quieten her.

"All of you be quiet. Varric only gets one hour to talk to his friend." Alexandra said from next to Fiona. There were blood smudges on her clothes, which didn't look much like clothes anymore. Lyrium was bursting out of her like sparks to a fire, always coming at unexpected moments. Her screams were the hardest to take.

"Thanks, Redcliffe," he said, too tired to use her preferred nickname.

Varric couldn't get used to how gross this place was starting to stink.

"Greetings. It is a rare delight to gaze upon someone familiar, Varric. I'm penitent it could not be under kinder circumstance." Fiona cooed. Her voice was still just as soothing, but quieter and weaker. Somehow, she still radiated calmness.

"You and me both," Varric agreed, "Any good news from your end of hell? Let's pretend hell has ends for a moment."

He noticed by the odd haze of red that Fiona's clothes had smudges of blood on them too. It was obvious what from.

"I have contracted a number of growths. From what I'm told, because I'm older my body's defences are not strong enough to withstand it," the former Grey Warden sounded confused, "but I prefer to blame it on grief and exhaustion than my age. It likely has no consequence to you, though it has not been a proud addition to my history. I will not die though, Varric. I dealt with plenty of nightmares when I was a Warden. It is closer to the experience than I prefer to admit," she sat down more comfortably, "though my elderly stupor has one advantage. Hunger does not tire me as much as it does to others. A woman opposite my quarters gets more food, though also more attention from guards. She was one of King Alistair's guards. It is saddening to hear her stories," Fiona explained, "She has lyrium growing in more areas, in places it should not go. She says as the growths increase, sustenance promptly follows, so she does not waste away. She has resided here a month."

They'd only been here, what… a week? Or something. Shit.

Something about mentioning Alistair seemed to greatly distress Fiona, but Varric did not seek to pursue it now.

"I wouldn't say no to more food," Varric said, "even if it means I have to suffer more. I won't lie. It feels inevitable and I'm not usually this depressing out loud. It's time for the characters to experience hell all over again."

Fiona rubbed her hand over one of his shoulders.

"Who is your company?" she asked, "I was not aware it was possible to share."

"One of the guards likes me." Alexandra said, pleased to enter the conversation, "I'm Alexandra Peyton of Redcliffe."

"A pleasure to meet you, Miss Peyton, I am… I _was_ Grand Enchanter Fiona." She gave an acknowledging nod of the head, "though now it is Fiona with no title. I think I know the guard you speak of. If we are thinking of the same, he threatened violence of many varieties, but I have cunning words, a weapon he does not know how to use," she paused, "He has stayed away for now. To be more hopeful, I heard the Elder One used to be a magister."

"Do you know anything else?" Varric asked. "Did he talk to you? Corypheus said he has Leliana."

"He seems to believe the Inquisition either has members remaining or have all perished." The mage muttered wearily, "of course, we have very little means of finding out the truth."

"If there are any left," Varric rubbed his nose, it was itching – never a great sign, "do you think they'd come help us?"

"They will do what they are able. For that, I am certain." Fiona said, "I refuse to pretend I have the answers, but I will wait hopeful, in chance of improvement. The Herald of Andraste came to us, after all. I pray for a similar miracle."

"I wouldn't bet on it, but whatever helps you sleep." Varric said, surprising himself again with his cynical attitude. "How are you finding Chuckles advice?"

"It has been useful," Fiona said thoughtfully, "How have…"

"Can you help me, please?" Alexandra interrupted, sounding desperate, "My nightmares have got worse, so it's harder…"

"If I find myself able to disconnect from my own, I will try assisting you in the Fade, but it is not something I can guarantee." Fiona said, placing her hands in her lap, "I hope you are able to answer - what are your nightmares about?"

Varric was surprised he would miss Fiona, a mage he'd hardly spoken to, but that seemed to be the case with everyone. He was happy to talk to her. After nightmares, itching, mining and hallucinations were discussed, the used-to-be Grand Enchanter, Varric and Alexandra reminisced on fond memories and this distracted them from the pain of red lyrium side effects. Though, the talk only was for one hour.

* * *

At first his brain hurt. An odd numbness clamp around his body like too tight a cloak, then he realized it was all probably because he'd been asleep for a long time. Or it was from the voices in the room.

"Hey his eyelids are moving again!" Alistair remarked, "Josie, I'm definitely not imagining it this time. See, the eyelashes. They're doing that weird jumping movement."

"Please, I ask that you let the Commander sleep," Josephine's voice was nearby too, "it has been a tiresome journey, though there is no need to worry. I will discuss what to do about Leliana's investigations into the Grey Wardens when he has awoken."

"Yeah. Thank you, again." Alistair sounded calmer, "been bothering me a lot. And I thought it was important."

"That is because it is important." Josephine said.

Cullen vaguely recalled the Grey Warden problem. Disappearances. The thought ended there, however.

"I'm so tired I feel like I could rule the universe." Alistair sounded, oddly enough, happy, "Have you ever felt like that? It feels weird. Definitely don't want important people like yourself feeling like that, Josie – its okay I call you Josie?"

"Yes, of course, and I am not sure." Josephine seemed to consider the proposal thoughtfully, "though there are letters I must attend to. Is our messenger still with us? I believe I saw him near the back on our way here?"

Why were they talking about this?

"If not, we can make a new one, can't we?" The King suggested. "Isn't that how the Inquisition does things?"

There were more important things to do.

"Ambassador…" Cullen groaned.

"He's proven me right! See! He's grumbling like he's been crawling through the Deep Roads." Alistair pointed out, "Kind of like a dwarf now that I think about it. Is his family partially dwarven in their family line? I should do some reading."

"Shut up." Cullen mumbled.

The King was distracting them from what really mattered.

"What was that, Commander of the Inquisition?" Alistair probed.

It obviously wasn't loud enough to be heard.

Cullen finally forced his eyes open, though there was grit in the corners, he could feel it sticking his eyelids together. "I said – quiet down!"

The sentence ended in a growl but thankfully the King understood the urgency. The room was almost completely blackened except for a number of lanterns balancing on some of the broken brick from one of the walls.

"Oh. Right." Alistair looked sheepishly at the ground, "Guess the nightmares didn't do you too good. Don't worry. Mine have been all end-of-the-world for weeks. I think the Maker hates me. Maybe we can chat about it and clap each other's shoulders, that sort of thing. It'd be real nice to not feel so crazy and unhinged."

Nightmares?

It took a moment until Cullen realized what the man was referring to. He couldn't remember any nightmares, though his tiredness was not solely for travelling so long. The last he had blue lyrium was this morning, and there had not been very much left. He'd had less of what he usually did. He needed to take another dose.

It was possible the blue lyrium was all gone. There was the Red Lyrium Ser Barris and the others had taken from Therinfal Redboubt.

As much as he desired to go into withdrawal, doing so would likely compromise the Inquisition to such an extent their demise was imminent.

Why was Alistair having nightmares? He didn't need lyrium.

"Do you know…" he began, though fell silent.

There was so much to do. They had to make this fortress their own. His lyrium could come later. There were far more important things that needed to be done. He came second. The Inquisition mattered more.

Josephine dropped to her knees, clip board balancing between her legs and breasts. She appeared concerned for him, "Do not strain yourself unnecessarily, Commander. Alistair has been extremely efficient in the time we were asleep. He ordered the Inquisition to retrieve food and confirm a water supply. This has been done. We have food for tonight and morning, even if it is not very much. They are searching for more as we speak."

Food. Water. Good.

"Demons don't make a nice meal." Alistair said, "Believe me, I've tried."

Cullen was still half asleep, "Very good job, Ambassador Montiliyet."

"Do I not get credit for anything? I didn't break out of Redcliffe for nothing." Alistair asked, disgruntled.

"You're a good man, Alistair." Cullen added it as an afterthought. It was true he had taken over as Inquisition Commander temporarily, though it was frustrating he couldn't speak a little quieter. He was overly sensitive to sound.

"If you can be so courteous, Alistair," Josephine requested, "May you figure out if there is any lyrium for the Commander to take? He does not look well."

"I – sure, I'll even run if that makes it easier."

Cullen watched, head heavy, as Alistair left the room. Now that the color was returning he discerned the exact shapes of the shadows in the crevices between each brick. He didn't open his mouth until the door was definitely closed, ensuring their privacy.

"I'm so sorry, Ambassador." He murmured, delayed guilt filling him, "It was so foolish of me to fall asleep."

"You apparently needed the rest, Commander," Josephine said, sitting on the ground crossed legged. "I believe there was a certain matter… you were concerned about… we were speaking about before we drifted."

"What?" Cullen asked, though the conversation slowly returned to him, "Oh, yes, the Herald." Unexpected emotion filled him, "She is… no longer with us."

He tried to wipe his eyes, pretend he was getting the grit out of them, though he felt tears well up in them too. Perhaps this was part of the withdrawal too, or it had lessened his ability to hold back emotion.

"Would you like to hold a service in her memory?" Josephine suggested.

She already understood. What a relief.

Cullen nodded, and tried to stop his emotions from spiralling out of control, but like a storm, they did whatever they pleased. His throat burn, though tears did not quite fall.

"It is a grave circumstance," the Antivan said, "when would you like to make the arrangement?"

The Commander paused. Given how dire the news was, he didn't want to be giving a speech to a bunch of soldiers he hardly knew without getting overly emotional. He needed to let the Inquisition know there was hope.

"We may do a small one tomorrow evening with us two, and…" he paused, as Eimear crossed his mind. She would find it interesting, "with close friends."

"Do you mean the ones who were closest to the Herald?" Josephine inquired.

Cullen peered at Josephine imploringly. He couldn't explain it. He just wanted Eimear to be there. She already knew what he was struggling with. It would be easier, "I will find them. I will search for a suitable location tonight, once Alistair returns with lyrium." He paused, "What else remains to be done?"

"We must, unfortunately, act as though we are beginning the Inquisition from its inception." Josephine said wearily, "My plan is to determine scouts to send to the closest towns and form alliances, if there are cities left after the demon eruption. I do not mean to, though I worry what to do about the Breach?"

Cullen tried to think, but his brain still wasn't working, "I will ponder on it, Ambassador. I know I said rotating mage volunteers to keep it dormant was not a viable option, though we may not have much choice. We must position mages near the Temple. I do not want to risk more than week getting it under control if it bursts open again. Though we need time to rebuild… and decide what to do about Redcliffe as well."

There was a knock on the door. Josephine glanced at it. "Commander?"

Her word indicated a question – was he happy to move on in the conversation?

"Answer it." Cullen sighed.

It was none else than Alistair. He looked slightly nervous as he entered.

"Commander, so I asked the other Templars for lyrium," he said, "and it didn't go as well as I thought. They still gave me some but…."

"What is it?" he interrupted.

Alistair merely pulled a small flask from his pocket. It was shaped differently to the ones he was used to, round. The liquid inside was red, more vibrant than the lanterns combined and there was a strange noise coming from it, almost like it was calling to him. It reminded him of the gigantic black dragon Corypheus had.

Cullen's eyes widened.

"Red…" he murmured.

"That it is." Alistair sounded sheepish. He scratched his head, "The reddest of red. Guess it can't all be blue. Green or yellow would look worse, mind you, if you'll let me have that witty one liner."

"This is no joking matter." Cullen carefully took the glass off Alistair. "This lyrium… Samson has been using it to create his red Templar army."

Anything to do with Samson made the Commander sick.

"Oh." Alistair's features suddenly fell. Perhaps he might not know who Samson was, though everybody knew who the Red Templars were, "Well, the other Templars have been taking it. This is the equivalent dose to blue one, or at least… that's what they say. It shouldn't blow your head to Orlais if that's what you're worried about."

He gripped the vial angrily, "I know. I have little choice," he paused, "though if I ever become like one of Samson's monsters, I pray you kill me. Let the Maker take me. I refuse to sink to his pathetic definition for glory." He remembered what Eimear said about why she had taken the Red lyrium, and thought maybe she had a point, "The moment I cease to be myself and become a product of rage and insanity, please do not hesitate to do what is right and… follow my command one last time."

Let his body crumble, but not his mind, anything but that…

"That's…" Alistair seemed bewildered, though Josephine was determined.

"If that is your desire," she said, "I will organize it should it ever need to happen, though I sincerely pray on my ancestors it is a mere fallacy."

Alistair nearly laughed from discomfort, "For lyrium, that's a little much, even it does make crazy out of people."

"It certainly is." Cullen agreed. Trying to ignore the nausea in his stomach, he opened the cork, "though the Inquisition needs me. The world needs me. Evelyn… would want me to take it."

The song intensified, smoke engulfing him despite his desire not to breathe. He had to breathe.

As though he was about to swallow urine instead of lyrium, he gagged as it flowed into his mouth from the sheer thought of what he was consuming. His tongue burned from metal and ash.

_This is the drink of madmen. It is the drink of destruction. _

Was he going to die? Were his nightmares going to get worse, even if the doses were under control?

Maker knew.

He tried to swallow but nearly choked. It wasn't from the taste. He was merely repulsed by what he was doing, overcome by his self loathing.

Was he a madman now? Was he going to crumble?

Not today. Surprisingly, once the aftertaste drained from his throat, a different sensation took its place.

He felt a surge of energy, bursting from his muscles, pouring out from the marrow in his bones, and his eyes widened, all weariness forgotten.

_This is the drink of strength… and it can turn people into monsters. _

Alistair looked like he wanted to say something, but the Commander ignored it.

Placing the glass in his pocket for cleaning, he rose to his feet, "You've been doing a good job, Alistair. I apologize for my earlier attitude. I need to be alone for a while, but rest assured, we will speak of the Wardens when I return."

* * *

Leliana sat down in the small stretch of garden surrounding Redcliffe castle, under the careful eye of a Venatori woman. It was the evening, and in the glow of the dying sunset little had been achieved, except being well fed and have her guard changed twice. Her charm wasn't charismatic enough. The attempts to befriend her enemies were backfiring. She was desperate for, though running out of ideas.

"How do _you_ justify your crimes to the Maker?" she asked, stretching out her shoulders.

The Venatori shrugged, "I'm doing what is right for Tevinter. It is not a crime."

Her hair bounced slightly as she did. The mages dressed far nicer than the Red Templars. At least she could enjoy their armour. It looked more normal, familiar. Like home… like traveling with the Warden.

"There are plans for Tevinter?" Leliana smiled in interest, "May you share these with me, madam?"

A steely eye met hers, "Ask Calpernia if you want details. She may be able to help."

This was a change. Most said 'We are not permitted to answer', told her to stop being sneaky or changed the subject entirely. Maybe she could go somewhere with this.

"I do not think Calpernia wishes to speak to me. She is so busy, as I understand it." Leliana put a finger to her lips thoughtfully, "Could you retrieve her?"

"No."

The Spymaster crossed her arms, "I was under the impression I'd be treated nicely."

"Within reason." The Venatori said.

Leliana paused. This was more boring and a lot less gossipy than she'd hoped. Though there was somebody who did have some influence over Calpernia's behaviour. "Would General Samson be so generous to give up some of his time for me?"

She'd tried not talking about them before, figuring it would be too suspicious, but there was little point hiding it anymore. Not for much longer.

The guard turned to face Leliana straight on, "I can get a Red Templar to watch you after? They will be able to grab the General's attention."

"Excellent!" Leliana rose to her feet, "You are so gracious, far more than your peers! Lead the way."

The compliment didn't inspire a reaction either. This was ridiculous. Maybe Calpernia and Samson had something to do with this…. or maybe they were just good soldiers.

* * *

The walk was not fun. Calpernia did not appear to be anywhere throughout the Castle. Like the night before the corridors and rooms were lined with Red Templars and Venatori, though they were chatting among themselves, almost like it was a big party.

They had to wait outside a room in one of the halls because Samson was deploying a number of his Red Templar assassins to Orlais. The voices were muffled inside.

_What could they be doing there?_ Leliana wondered.

She never found out.

* * *

When they entered the room and General Samson seemed highly amused, grinning about something. He had one leg crossed over the other, hands in his lap, leaning his wooden chair against the wall like procrastinating university student.

He glanced at Leliana, and she tried not to frown. He was still as grimy, slimy and foul as the night before.

"You got sick of her too?" he inquired to the Venatori, like gossiping girls in a garderobe.

"She tires of me, General." Venatori said, "Said she wants to talk to you."

Leliana glanced around the room. No papers on the desk. A bookshelf to the right, a few candles glimmering from tall stands juxtaposed around paintings, familiar and nice on their own until she remembered why she was here. These horrid persons had taken over the Castle and defiled it.

"Right, leave her with me." Samson said, waving away the Venatori like she was a fly, "go have a late lunch – early dinner - or something."

"On your order, General." Said the Venatori.

The Red Templar General didn't address Leliana until the door was closed.

With a bang, he let the chair fall back on its four legs, "You're going to give a confession to your role in the Inquisition yet, Sister Nightengale?"

Leliana paused. She could lie, but if they found out she'd given false information she's likely die or be tortured a lot more severely. "No, General."

"Then I can't help you." Samson said briskly, though he raised his red, horrid eyes at her, "but I can help you get out of your captivity problem if you're… how should I say… bleeding on your knickers desperate."

Leliana's eyes narrowed. Coming from the leader of the Red Templars this couldn't be anything good. And his metaphor was appalling.

Still, she feigned politeness, "Please tell me of your idea, my Chantry despising friend."

Samson smiled, maybe at the word 'Chantry', 'friend' or the fact she was cooperating. "Think about it. Join my army. Work independently to Corypheus when deployed on assignments. Gives you a decent chance to run away, don't it? Once my Templars backs are turned. You're smart enough, you could sneak."

Leliana crossed her arms, "Yes, and I have no doubt you would keep a very close eye on my whereabouts at all times. You'd turn it as a means to locate the Inquisitions whereabouts."

Samson laughed. "Yeah. I would."

_At least he is honest_, Leliana thought disgruntled.

"I'm right though. You know how you're clever. Still… a man can dream of converting a Chantry lover to a Chantry hater. I can keep a few of my fancies alive."

It was clear. Leliana and Samson were on the same page. They were trying to toy around with each other. It was a game she was used to playing. And one she had a record of wining.

"You can." Leliana moved closer to the desk, "though I will never abandon my pride for the Chantry. You hate the Maker so much, I am surprised it was not you who decided to destroy the Chantry in Kirkwall. You were a Marcher once, if I am not mistaken?"

Samson chuckled and abandoned his paperwork. He uncrossed his arms and his legs, gloating at her. "I thought of it. A lot. But I figured there was a better way to wreck it. Besides, I don't hate the Maker. I only think he is dead."

So he wasn't reckless enough to explode a chapel, but he was somehow twisted enough to raise an army of monsters. It was a bizarre array of evil logic. A small part of her wanted to understand for she could not grasp how one person could pick their battles in such a way.

"Perhaps you are not as much a fool as I suspected." Leliana said, spitefully, "though far more hateful for it."

The Red Templar General reached at his hip and pulled out his sword. It looked very heavy, but he carried it like it was made of glass – a glowing, red, monstrous weapon. "Don't worry, sweet Sister." The sword spiked brighter, preparing to strike, "The hatred is mutual."

Leliana felt mildly fearful. This was no ordinary weapon. It was forged with what looked like Red Lyrium. Even standing near it, it brought sweat to her body like standing in a steaming kitchen. She frowned.

There was a weakness she could still exploit, "What of Calpernia?"

"What about her?" Samson prodded the sword forward to make sure Leliana wasn't in the way and put it back in its sheath.

"She appeared rather angry this morning." Leliana said pointedly, "are you not worried she might lose her concentration… or become vicious? Though not justly irritated, but vile toward you?"

"No." the Red Templar general moved his chair so he was facing Leliana, "She's more fun when she's a spitfire. But I guess you wouldn't know." He chuckled, "She's only a little embarrassed I shared that bit of information with you last night. I wasn't expecting she'd be happy about it. I don't care much I was right."

"You could have lied." Leliana pointed out.

"Shut it." Samson looked angry. He tapped a number of his fingers in his other palm, as though he was ticking down a bomb. His next words sounded disappointed. "What are you doing being useless, sweetheart? You know how clever you are." he smiled in what would have been charming if he wasn't disgusting to look at, "part of you knows you can even outwit me."

The Spymaster was so disgusted at being called 'sweetheart' by such a repulsive male horror that she missed the detail that he'd abruptly changed the subject. She truly hated this sort of flirtatious person, the type who did it uninvited. Not only that, he was being arrogant and presumptuous.

"Do not call me that." Leliana snarled, and in her rage she said, "I'll have you know, it is Leliana or Spymaster."

For a tense pause they only heard the flicker of the candle light and muffled voices from outside. They met each other's eyes, like playing Wicked Grace. Who had the Angel of Death in their hand?

The black of the Red Templars eyes glistened with triumph, his discoloured teeth exposed in a grin.

"Spymaster, eh?" he mused.

It was immediately clear. He had taunted her on purpose to distract her, to compromise her concentration.

Leliana took a deep breath. She wasn't supposed to have said that. She had gotten too emotionally invested! Oh, that Samson was clever because he pretended to be stupid!

"Leliana is a nice name." still with a glint of a smile from his retrieval of information, Samson looked for something in the draw of a desk and removed a vial of red lyrium, "shame you rather use a piss poor pseudonym."

"You are a wicked man." Leliana breathed, trying to regain composure.

"I have been called far worse names in my years, Sister Nightengale." The General pushed the glass toward her, "'Wicked' is almost a compliment. What are you doing wasting your combat skill? You could join me. You have a chance of getting out, even if it's pathetically little. There are lots of pretty green light to see out there, and mountains and cities. Stay here, and say nothing, and you will never leave."

Leliana pondered. She couldn't join Samson because his cause was to destroy Thedas with the Elder One. His aim was to abolish the lives of thousands, including the Inquisition. She would never agree to something like that.

"Why would I destroy my friends and family?" she demanded, "and other people's friends and family?"

Samson pulled off the cork of the vial and rest the liquid beneath his nose, allowing himself to inhale the scent. "Good question. What _would_ make you turn against the ones you care about?"

He waited for Leliana to answer, his eyes almost drilling to her core. The Spymaster went over her reasons again, "Because I believe the Maker lives. I have hope that the world can be changed for the better. You have none. You believe the Maker is dead!"

"I believe the world can be changed for the better." Samson said carefully, swirling the red lyrium in its flask, "I just don't think your system works as efficiently as you think it does."

Systems. Power. Politics. It always came down to that, didn't it? Every provenance, every country and each person was the same.

"And you think the Elder One's arrangement is so superior?" Leliana shouted, unable to hold back her anger.

"Not now." Samson said, thoughtfully considering her argument, "Though… Eventually."

The smile he gave was almost inspiring. This man truly believed in his cause, as strongly as Leliana did. He held out the red lyrium.

"Want to try it?" he slowly leaned forward, "It's not as bad as everybody says it is, you know. I've seen so much shit I'd have nightmares from hell even if I didn't take it. And the benefits outweigh the consequences. Given how terrible everyone says the corruption is, don't you think that says something about its power?"

Leliana paused. Samson was not an idiot. Not in the least. She had been wrong about that, completely. He was intelligent. And like any scholar, he was making her think and question her choices.

This was very bad.

She looked away from the red lyrium. Samson was right. With power, she had a chance of running away. If the benefits outweighed the negatives, perhaps the chance was not as slim as Samson made it out to be.

But they were all watching her. Even if she joined the Red Templars only to escape, she'd always be found. She'd always end up right back here, possibly in the Redcliffe prison. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't fight on her own, not against the whole world, Samson or Calpernia, and certainly not the Elder One.

Out of the dungeons was better. This was all she could do. Staying here was the best she could do. Perhaps if the timing was right, if the Inquisition came to get her, she could take the red lyrium to help her escape. But only under very specific circumstances.

She believed in the Inquisition. She wouldn't betray them.

"Keep your vile potion." Leliana said, taking a deliberate step back.

Samson put the cork back on the lyrium and lodged it in the gap between his neck and armour, "Rejecting a gift, sweetie? That isn't very courteous for a Chantry sister."

_How dare he still call me by those words! _

"It is no gift." Leliana said, firmly, trying to stop her teeth from grinding together, "it is bribery. Do not treat me for a fool."

"But you _are_," Samson's voice had become nearly silky. The gruffness had all but gone. It almost sounded like Cullen, a man who had not been corrupted by a substance at all. He stood from the chair and scrutinized her, unimpressed, "Joining me is your ticket out of this Castle, and you decide to stay, where no one will find you."

He was wrong. There was a minute chance the Inquisition could find her, just like if she'd joined the Red Templars there'd be an equally small chance, but it was a hope none the less. She would not back down.

Leliana couldn't move, and didn't as Samson pushed some of her hair out of her eyes delicately with one of his gnarled nails, "You realize what's lined up for you tomorrow, right?"

"Torture, I suspect." Leliana said stiffly. She hadn't been overly afraid. These people wanted to keep her alive, and there was still a chance to manipulate and trick those who were chosen to torture her. Besides, she'd die if they weren't careful.

"Torture…" the word brought a grin to Samson's lips, "That's not the right word, _sweetheart_." He said the word disdainfully, to irritate her, "there are some sick people in this world who get off to the thought of being tortured. They twist it into a game. I am not one who goes too deep into that fire, though I can tell you like your stupid little ring-a-ring-of-roses shit. That's not what this is going to be. It's not going to be fun for you."

Leliana kept her head up high and pretended to not be intimidated by the Red Templar General. Fear wasn't the right word. She found him incredibly repulsive. And a small part of her hoped he was wrong. She could still mess with them.

Even if Samson had the upper hand right now and was toying with her.

"That means nothing." She said with bated breath. It might not even be true, but she would wish it to be so. She was going to fight. She would be strong.

The Red Templar General moved a finger to her jawline, almost like framing a portrait. She stayed still, but she was tempted to spit on him in disgust. Leliana was nothing but a symbol to him. He wanted a symbol of the Chantry with his Red Templars. He wanted to know he could convert an extremely devout Sister. If he had her, the information she possessed, he could control all of Thedas.

"You won't be _tortured_, Sister." Samson sounded impeccably calm now, "You will break."

Leliana took another step back, to get away from his disgusting nails, breath, and general grossness of everything.

"No one breaks me." she breathed, completely controlled.

Samson chuckled, though he didn't look hateful, more like he pitied her, "You are just like all those Chantry worshipping morons." He picked up the vial between two fingers, "Naïve…"

Leliana flinched as Samson let go of the vial and with a smash shards of glass flew in multiple directions. The red liquid soaked on the ground.

It wasn't because it scared her, but she hadn't expected Samson to dispose of lyrium so easily.

Samson stepped around the small puddle in the office and clapped Leliana on the back as he passed. "You don't understand a fundamental truth about human beings, Sister Nightengale,"

She was not naïve. She wasn't.

Bewildered, Leliana followed him out of the room, walking a step quicker so his hand could not remain on her back. "I was convinced a clever, sweet girl like you would know?"

Leliana half tried to meet Samson's eyes, though was filled with terror, "Yes, my rubbish loving friend?"

Samson smirked, his hatred for her becoming visible again. He placed both his hands on her shoulders, like how professors did when trying to repeat a concept to a student for the tenth time. He looked nearly affectionate, a parental sort of sternness.

"Torture can be a game." He said, "But when a person breaks into tiny pieces, it usually isn't their choice."

Leliana was silenced and tried to think of something witty to say in return, but nothing came.

There was no arguing with Samson's logic here. Like the vial of lyrium being dropped onto the ground, it smashed by a force of gravity. It broke against the ground. It didn't choose to meet that fate. Glass was sturdy. It lived well, it served its purpose. It was merely dropped and let go, left to its own devices.

Sometimes life dropped you, and there was a hard stone cold floor at the bottom. Sometimes life kicked you to the dirt, and no one was around to catch the fall. Sometimes the world was a cruel place, and a person was in the wrong place, at the wrong time for no apparent reason.

He whispered something under his breath, a song, a rhyme for children, "_A ring, a ring o' roses_,"

He could hit the notes, not that there were many notes to hit, but his voice was too destroyed by lyrium to sound anything less of cringe worthy.

Samson observed her intently for a moment before letting go of her shoulders, carefully and slowly. His gaze was unmistakable. The pupils lessened, showing hints of grey beneath the red. It was disappointment. Not sadness for her, but a grief for the truth.

"_A bottle full o' voices_," he continued, appearing mildly lost in his head now. He tapped his foot once, "_all the girls in Kirkwall, ring for little Lilley_,"

The Spymaster didn't hide her anger now, "Leliana." She corrected.

"Aw, you reminded me, sister."

"You can't sing."

"I can." He didn't sound offended, "I used to sing in the Chantry too once, for years I did. Just like you."

He was preying on her weaknesses, her love for the Chantry. It had to stop. She had to leave.

"Even so," the Spymaster paused, "The Maker is with me. I will hold onto whatever strength I can, even if I die in the process."

The Red Templar General looked slightly irritated, "Piss, that sounds familiar."

It was the amused but frustrated tone of a man who could not remember something he was meant to.

Though Leliana didn't think she was supposed to answer that. She didn't know what to say.

As he marched away in the corridor, he said, "Too bad, Leliana. You're wasted potential, just like your precious Inquisition Commander. But I'm nice. I'll be here if you change your mind."

_I won't change my mind,_ she thought, _I have an Inquisition to protect, and I can do it best from here._

She watched him go, bewildered, even as a Red Templar reached her side and said, "That sounded fun."

The Spymaster didn't listen.

Leliana knew the wisdom in Samson's words. Life had forces of its own, other people, experiences and thoughts. And they had power. One blow hard enough and she would be as useless as the vial in the office, even with the Maker.

Destiny changed people. Sometimes for the worst, and when that came there was no telling when, where, why, how, or anything. It simply happened, despite a person's instincts, wits, resilience and better judgement.

_Ring-a-ring-a-roses, a Castle full of louses; Ashes! Ashes! They all fall down. _

"No one will break me." she repeated aloud, though it didn't meet the ears of the Red Templar guarding her. No one heard it except her.


	19. Longing

"Thank you, nice Guard. I'll be able to sleep much better now, yes, a lot, a lot better."

The rattling of chains snapped Varric from his meditative state.

Alexandra appeared half asleep, or close to a dead person as she struggled to brace her hands in front, elbows unlocked and extremities limp. The familiar jingle and scraping of iron bounced off the walls as she skulked to the stone flooring, weak and drained. Bathroom breaks were the sad only opportunity for a walk, despite showering, but that was more of a solemn ritual.

"V-Varric!" she gasped, "Wait… you got away from your dream. I stole it. I broke it. Blast the moon. I wager you were thinking awful stories of me just now."

The one he called Redcliffe looked more suited to the slums of Kirkwall, or cleaning floors at the Hanged Man, not a bright young lady who loved to go fishing. The grime in her hair, gluing clumps of it together, was no blandishment. The fabric of her dress was fraying and there were gaping blackened lesions down her spine from where red lyrium had been removed, and her eyes were almost completely red from the reflections of the lyrium.

Alexandra gulped, "Don't feel bad for me. I beg you. I… it was inevitable something like this would happen."

She was crying again, and there were chunks of congealed blood trickling down her legs, despite her attempt to hide it with her dress.

"Funny. I still feel amiss for your misfortune," Varric admitted, "Am I missing something?"

Putting on a brave tone and courageous face was the reality of surviving in the Redcliffe prisons, unless one managed to keep their mind on the Fade. Varric had succeeded on descending into a trance on most of his attempts, though it became impossible when red lyrium burst out of his body or even prepared to make an entrance. The dwarf's legs ached from lyrium being pulled from them not hours ago. He'd become so accustomed to darkness he sometimes couldn't remember what sunlight looked like, but he still tried to keep pleasant and jovial despite their dire situation.

"I'm a nonsensical, naive floozy." Alexandra stuttered, "I thought it would hurt less if…Stupid. I wish I'd die in my sleep."

He didn't want to coax details from her, for whether it was to do with one of the guards, her nightmares, the lyrium, or all of these, it wasn't pleasant. It never was.

"Hey, I know it's shit load of abysmal and depressing but," Varric struggled to think of some inspiring words, though he was running low on them lately, "letting yourself decompose isn't going to put a smile on anyone's faces either. It won't help me, but I get it. That's probably on the other side of Thedas right now in terms of your priorities."

Alexandra looked into dwarf's eyes, and he wished he could see her in a hallucination again just to forget the reality of how ruined they all were. "Why can't I? What do you lose if I'm gone? What does anyone lose?"

"If you go it'll make it harder to think straight." Varric said. "I need my head if I'm going to get through this. You need your head too. We're here to pick up the sludge and general terror of what falls out of our brains… and gets forced in it."

It didn't seem to be a comfort. Alexandra lay down on the cell floor, as though waiting for death. "No one is going to get through this." her face crumpled into something abominable, "Blessed Maker - what have I done?"

She cried louder. Varric still wasn't used to seeing it. He had pictured her tears, but it was so different to have in front of him, her face completely unrecognisable.

Struggling to keep focused, he settled a hand on her head, wishing he was stronger. It was a relief to do so, a comfort to connect with _somebody_. Her hair, despite the texture, was the luxuriant colour of autumn leaves. It would contrast so nicely against the ocean. He was positive it would be pretty and gracious if she had access to a brush. He could picture her in a straw hat with a wide smile, enjoying the breeze in her hair.

A life of sunlight had never seemed so far away.

"If you'd asked me to d-d-dance…" she stuttered, finally, "it would have been the happiest day of my life."

Dance? Oh, _that_ conversation. Varric didn't expect those words to come out of her mouth. "Come on… they'd be so many good-looking human charmers at a ball."

"No, there wouldn't. It's gospel." Alexandra said, "I went to something like it with Mamma a number of times. _Balls_ don't happen in Redcliffe, but families still organize dances." She tried to pick off some grime from her skin, "Fran was so inviting she took all the attention. I was so flustered I sat in a corner and picked the lacquer on my nails. I didn't know how to look any of them in the face. Undeniable depravity," Alexandra wiped her eyes. "I can't have faith in the Maker. I just can't."

"I get it." Varric acknowledged.

Alexandra tried to regain her breath. "No one will remember me, except my family, and they're probably all dead too. I'm going to die second best to my sister, never good enough for my parents, without a boy ever having loved me." she wiped her nose on her dress.

Her story was ordinary, even dull, but Varric felt for the poor girl. She reminded him of Bianca, a victim of circumstances. He ran the hand on her head down to an undamaged part of her back. "Your value isn't determined by whether some Redcliffe emeer shines your shoes. You can just pay someone to do that," Varric said, "You're a funny girl, polite enough anyway, get out of here and chances are you can make something of your life. It's not smart to try predict outcomes. If I didn't try grouping words onto paper I never would have been better at my brother at something."

"I don't care about whether I mean something. I just wanted my life to know more than gathering herbs and picking out bones from between my teeth." Alexandra ranted, "I wish I had better memories to confide in. Pappa and I used to exchange gossip and read books on the boat to each other." She recalled, "That was wonderful. Fran and I knitted sometimes to prepare for winter. It was the few times we talked sensibly. I got good at making soup when Mamma was sick. If I could go back to the dance floor, or when I failed to use arrows to get Pappa's love, I would have taken a chance. I always wanted to knock Fran aside and say 'I'm here too!'"

"You _are_ here." Varric said, "That's why I still need you here." Obviously her family life was weighing on her. "But I'm feeling a jealousy storm for your sister?"

"Yes!" Alexandra seemed exasperated, her eyes ablaze. "I wanted the boys to compliment _me_ in my dress._ I_ wanted to be the one they ran away to the bushes with – the one they offered wine to. My sister was much shorter than me, but she had curves, and was mountains more confident. She was given so much more freedom because she was the favourite." The girl paused and brushed some hair out of her eyes, "I guess it doesn't matter anymore. I wish I had more time. I thought I'd do much more with my life."

"Trust me, I've heard worse about how you could mess up your life, but I get it." Varric reflected, "Hey how about… I write a story about you? We can write _your_ story, make it as crazy and idealistic as you want. When we get out we'll have plenty of ideas. Would that make you not want to die?"

He used the words 'when you get out' apposed from 'if' because the alternative was too depressing.

Alexandra sniffed and looked up. "Can a simple story really help that much?"

"I don't know," Varric shrugged, "Honestly, I have so many screws loose I'd do anything to not drop the last handful. It's an idea though. There's more time than we need to think about it, though I will need more ink at some point."

Alexandra wiped her eyes on her arm, calmer. "I'd be willing to try." She paused, 'I don't know if it'll work."

Her voice guttered and the tears ripped through to his shrunken stomach. Varric grabbed her arm, wishing that could make her realize that she was important.

Miss Redcliffe had committed no crime or broken any laws. She had missed opportunities from insecurity, one of the worst punishments the Maker could give to a girl granted a normal life…. until this, anyway.

"Trying is good enough for me. Maybe I'm on par with my brother now."

"I don't care anymore."

Some of Royle's words passed Varric's head - _People do some monstrous things when they retain a will to live._

Varric supposed he could do worse than offer to pen girls' hopes and dreams who may as well have been a pile of bones.

"Neither do I." he answered finally.

* * *

"How exquisite!" Josephine wrote down some notes absently. She was in her night clothes, a black and chestnut gown, more than ready to head to bed, but work would not leave her alone, "A pond and flowers will be more than suitable for a memorial. Will you inform me of the… guest list once it is done?"

"O-Of course, Ambassador." Cullen was relieved that the main task of his night was finished. At least he would no longer need to go outside. However, there were still plenty to speak to. "Though I suspect it will be short, barely a few lines. Where is Alistair?"

"He is in the quarters at the end of the main hall to the left." Josephine said, referring to another piece of paper that Cullen suspected was a draft on room allocations, "It is my presumption that Dorian Pavus is also no longer with us, considering the circumstances about Evelyn?"

Cullen felt his joints stiffen in surprise. It must be true, though it had slipped his mind. "I expect so, Ambassador. He vanished at the same moment the Herald did."

"It was my assumption alone, Commander; though thank you very much for the clarification." She assured him, "I drafted a letter to Master Halward Pavus, Dorian's father, and his mother Aquinea Thalrassian, informing them of the news. I have mentioned the Herald's passing as well, stressed that Dorian met a well-respected and heroic end in combat. It will likely take a number of weeks until it arrives in Qarinus in Tevinter, and longer to receive the reply. The word of the Herald's passing will spread quickly, I deduce, and any presumptions about the Inquisition will blossom from them." Josephine paused, "my thoughts are that it may be an opportunity to gather allies. I offered House Pavus an alliance with the Inquisition, if they are interested in opposing Alexius. The Houses pretend to be joined though they are rivals, however there is still a chance the approach will be seen sourly. I wanted to know if you would like to proof read the letters before I send them."

Cullen didn't even want to think about it anymore, "You are chief diplomat for a reason, Ambassador. I trust in your abilities. Send it how you want. Is there anything else I should know?"

For how long the day had been, he hoped there wasn't.

Josephine appeared slightly uncomfortable, "The… Archer Brooks was deliberating your whereabouts. I trust the news does not come as too surprising?"

He thought about it. It wasn't a surprise, though he wasn't quite certain how to interpret it either. "Not particularly, though thank you. I will see what she wants after Alistair. Where can I find her?"

Josephine ran a finger along the page and pointed at a room, showing him, "It is downstairs by the kitchens."

"Thank you." Cullen said, "Go to sleep now, Josephine. There's always time to work tomorrow."

"Ah, yes, without question." Josephine rubbed her forehead, smiling embarrassed, "I will only follow that advice if and when you do."

Cullen sighed. "That is fair. I will come in to check on your when I am done then."

Though in his mind he thought he had far more reason to stay awake than Josephine, given he'd already slept a number of hours in the day.

* * *

Alistair's quarters were more than the left to the end of the hall. That door lead to a pathway that went in a square formation to a staircase, and then _that_ door lead to his room. Maker, how many doors does this fortress have? Cullen wondered.

His knock was promptly answered with a barely audible 'Come in!' and the Commander was faced with the most impressive room in the entire castle. It was quite large and rectangular, more suitable for a lounge room or kitchen. Two ornate sets of windows that lead to balconies laid nearby, along with empty bookshelves, a desk… making the bed more an accessory. Leliana might have thrown a party in here if she discovered it first. It certainly was as bare as all the other rooms, but it had been cleaned. The windows, without any curtains made it freezing, so many lantern stands were lit with flame. The King, or maybe the Inquisition members, had deliberately sought the quaintest and daintiest room in the entire stronghold for him.

_An appropriate decision_, Cullen decided, pacing across the polished floorboards.

Alistair was drawing something at one of the desks, hunched over. He was wearing a basic tunic and trousers, possibly from another Inquisition member, given it was different attire from when he'd arrived. He also looked like he'd showered. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled, "You found me! That's a relief! I was thinking everybody would fall off the scanty rectangle bridge thing on the way here and meet their gruesome deaths at the bottom. I don't think… you hopefully didn't trip?"

Cullen grinned, "My knees are unscathed." He took one step forward, "It is fine if I discuss the Warden matter with you now?"

"Yeah, I've been trying to occupy myself in the meanwhile." Alistair pushed the chair back and turned it so he wouldn't have to strain his neck, "How was your walk?"

"I achieved what I set out to do, thank you." Cullen said, approaching the desk. Should he tell Alistair about the memorial? Did he want the man to be there?

Haven. The memory of the blizzard, fire and the dragon returned to him. If the Commander had the resources and the resolve, he wanted to go there for a memorial, or at least preserve a piece of it to remind him of Evelyn. Stand on the training grounds just outside of it, perhaps once last time, but it would likely end with more memorials to plan. It hadn't only been Corypheus there, but while trudging through the snow with many injuries, the two had shared their regrets about women. Had Alistair said he'd been in love with his mistress?

He couldn't get distracted about that yet, having spotted the large sheet of parchment spread across the desk, "What is this?"

It looked like a map of some description, with many black lines of differing thickness and straightness drawn across it, though of what? This fortress?

Alistair tried to flatten the edges, "This is what years of living in Redcliffe Castle has done to me. I've created a floor plan, figured it might help you figure out how to organize infiltrating the place. This is only the bottom floor. I was trapped in this room," he pointed to a small box north east of the page, "I have no idea where Anora was. The prisons are over here." he traced a squiggly line across a number of corridors, "When the villagers got me out, I remember seeing Red Templars and some Venatori in these places… though sadly there's probably a lot more of them now."

The Commander felt all breath leave him. This gave him something to work with. It was a step closer to formulating a plan, "This is brilliant." He whispered in awe, trying to take in the representation box. "I do not have… I cannot think of how to thank you."

Alistair did not seem disheartened. He gave a jovial grin, "Don't worry. I've already thought on how you can repay your debt to me."

"Yes?" Cullen probed, though deep down he wondered if he was going to regret the offer.

The King leaned back in his chair and stretched out his knuckles, "It so happens that there's a bit of a problem with the Grey Wardens. I didn't get a chance to speak to any in Haven, but the fact some have joined Corypheus convinces me we need to investigate."

"The Grey Wardens…" Cullen mulled it over slowly, trying to remember what he knew about King Alistair. Despite being King for a few years Cullen had barely paid attention. When the Blight swept over Fereldan he transferred to Kirkwall, and there the powers at be were the Viscount and Meredith. "I have a vague memory that you had some involvement with them?"

"A witty Grey Warden aiding the Hero of Fereldan on her journey?" Alistair raised an eyebrow, he sounded tired, "Maybe it sounds familiar? If it doesn't, that was me – yes, war, betrayal, darkspawn, Archdemon. It was big and lots of fun. Nobody cares about that anymore. Too long ago. King kind of overshadowed it, though that _was_ one of the decent sides to the job."

Cullen chuckled. Trying to push aside the fact Alistair was a very multi-talented person, the two had a lot in common, "I still have citizens from Kirkwall call me Knight Commander even though that was only the case until recently." He crossed his arms, "We are getting distracted. I see, so you were a Warden, _with_ the Wardens in your previous life. What would you like the Inquisition to investigate? Or the better question, how?"

Alistair unlaced his fingers and drummed them on one of his thighs thoughtfully, humming. "Trying to think about explaining… you know about the Calling, don't you?"

"That is…" Cullen struggled to remember, "A Warden song, if I am not mistaken?"

"Wardens are tied to the Darkspawn.' Alistair said, pensively gazing at the parchment on the desk, "We're connected somehow, and eventually the connection poisons you. You get bad dreams, and the song."

"It does not sound dissimilar to lyrium addiction." Cullen remarked, feeling like Alistair was less of an idiot and more a friend with every word. "Something you're bound by, a new duty of its own, a binding. I'm sorry you have to experience it."

"It called to me quiet at first. Now it's so loud I can hardly bear it. Technically, I'm meant to say farewell, go to the Deep Roads and die fighting, but it… could be a useful clue." The King said, "I didn't think much of it at the time. The Calling can come to those at my age, especially if I've been wearing myself down. Anora said I did too much, but after fighting for so long, it's hard _not_ to. It's not like King is a lesser responsibility. I wasn't overly surprised… expecting it, but Willow – my mistress, I think she might be alive. When I was captive, one of the Venatori gave me a note, from her, muttering about how 'the knife ears bolted'. I don't think they thought she could do much, maybe went easy on her. It said '_I'll keep __**calling**__ to you in my dreams, more times than I think of you." _

"Your mistress…" Cullen repeated the words, trying to make sense of the conversation, "Are you telling me she was also a Grey Warden?"

"You didn't already know that?" Alistair brought a pearly eye to him, "The Hero of Fereldan helped out with odd jobs in the Castle. She was pretty happy to settle into the quiet, yet political life connected to royalty."

"The Hero of Fereldan was your _mistress_?" the Commander raised his voice, shocked. This was definitely not what he had expected the King to be like, or even what the Hero of Fereldan was like. It all sounded like scandals and promiscuity. "What kind of bizarre romantic coupling did you have with the Queen?"

Alistair shrugged, "It's not like Anora and I were in love. It was an arranged thing. You understand the politics of it…. at first, eh, it was all putting on brave faces, big smiles, staged kisses, awkward arm hooking and pretending to be in love. Over time, it was easier to cooperate. The Queen became the friends with benefits type relationship while – in my mind, anyway – Willow was my primary lover, as she always had been."

"That is absurd!" Cullen criticized, thinking that one relationship, or even _getting_ into one was complicated and stressful enough.

Alistair gave a shrewd smile, "It's not what I'd call simple, but I don't have much right to complain. Anora and Willow dealt with the worst of it. I had two ladies, and they only had one man… some of the time." There was softness in his eyes, "I still can't quite envision how that would feel after all these years, though they described it over and over… half of me each, they said. I was two halves and not a whole."

The man went silent, pondering over the complexities of his relationships. Cullen reminded himself to focus on the Grey Warden incident.

"Is it unusual for two Grey Wardens to hear the Calling at the same time? Is that what you think happened?"

"What? Yes, that's what I think her note meant." Alistair briefly shook his head, "It is strange timing. That's why… I mean, the villagers… when I uncovered rumours of the Inquisition, there was talk of the Wardens too. Not much. That they'd disappeared somewhere… but when I saw some of the rogue ones, and that Corypheus thing. He looked like a Darkspawn."

"Do you think these details are connected?" Cullen probed.

Alistair scratched his head, "Yeah. Darkspawn taint and Wardens are closely related, so… there's a lot we need to find out. If not, I'd like to find out why."

The Commander peered at the map again. This was all very well, but where were they supposed to start with research? "Where – or what – do you suppose we do?"

"I think Willow had the same questions." Alistair said, "And the only logical place to hear about Grey Wardens, or retrieve clues of her whereabouts is to investigate Weisshaupt Fortress in the southern Anderfels."

"If the Wardens are under the influence of Corypheus for any reason," Cullen said, "I do not think it wise to write to them. We might need to send some scouts or spies." He remembered the Inquisition's distinct lack of spies, "Maker, I wish Leliana was still here."

"Leliana?" Alistair repeated, "Is that lay sister Leliana from Lothering? Red hair, intimidating blue eyes – at least, I think they were blue - speaks of the Maker a lot?"

Cullen's rant suddenly halted. The description sounded uncannily similar, "Yes." He said stonily, annoyed they were still getting side tracked, "Why?"

"She used to travel with me and the Hero of Fereldan!" Alistair said, regaining his enthusiasm, "I wonder if she is the same person. How Thedas is small - Tinier than it makes out to be, anyway! How did she get here?"

The surprises never ended with King Alistair.

"I… I never received all of the details. She was part of the Inquisition because she joined with Cassandra." Cullen said hastily, "but you can discover the truth of it later – no, _tomorrow_. Tomorrow. Josephine probably knows. But this is a good transition. I believe Leliana and Cassandra are currently hostages in the dungeons of Redcliffe Castle. At the same time as organizing who to send to Weisshaupt Fortress, we need to figure out what to do about Redcliffe Castle." He bent one of his knees, tired of so much standing, "Is there any more information you can provide about the current state of it?"

Alistair appeared curious, "Which other Inquisition members are in the dungeons, again? Josie told me, but they were just words to me."

"Yes." Cullen nodded, "A dwarf, Varric, he was investigating Red Lyrium before we got separated. Cassandra, she is a Seeker and one of our War Council. Solas, an apostate who knew a lot about the Breach and the Rifts… possibly Leliana, our Spymaster, though we cannot confirm it, and I think the Grand Enchanter Fiona may be in there as well, unless a graver fate has befallen them."

One of Alistair's eyebrows twitched, and he moved his chair further so he was facing Cullen straight on, "Is the objective to get _all_ of them out?"

The steely expression on the King's scarred face was suddenly intimidating. What had changed his mood so rapidly?

"That…" Cullen involuntarily screwed up his nose in stress, "It depends entirely on what we are up against. We might need to prioritize, but if you have any information at all it would be indispensible. On the assumption we can rescue at least _some_ of the prisoners we might be able to disrupt their red lyrium trade another time."

Alistair definitely looked irked. He crossed one leg over the other. "I'll finish the outline of the Castle tomorrow, and then I'll write down what I can remember and do another drawing. I've had enough of today… though I did have an idea about the prioritizing."

"Like I said, your feedback will be considered very seriously." Cullen said.

"I don't know what chances are left of rescuing all the Inquisition members." Alistair said, pensively examining the night sky from one of the gigantic windows, "I had the best fighters in Redcliffe come get me and it was a suicide mission. Honest and plain, _Grand Enchanter_ Fiona should be at the bottom of that list." His tone abruptly poured of sarcasm, "Yeah, to be honest, I don't think she _deserves_ a rescue. As King, I'm inclined to order you leave her there."

He said the words with such loathing Cullen was alarmed. Until now Alistair had been a rather kind hearted person, perhaps too kind, too joking and maybe too foolish. But he was important, and clearly he had a grudge.

The Commander cleared his throat, "And… what is your justification? She might have contacts to many mages. We are low on numbers so we need as many as it is possible to gather."

"Why? Finally, something I know how to answer." Alistair gave a half grin, though it didn't match his eyes. He looked Cullen so hard in the face it was daunting. "It's simple. Anora and I allowed her to use the Castle as sanctuary for her mages. I have nothing against mages. I'm friends with many of them. I understand that the circumstances with the Breach made life awkward. But she brought those Tevinter cultists there; which lead to all the imprisonments…" his anger turned into a passionate rage, and for once Cullen could see the King in him, "Was that smart or considerate of everyone else? No. Was it welcome? _No_. Did it go against what Anora and I wanted? Absolutely. Tevinters they're… you need to be careful around them. Their social hierarchy and cultural deviations… It's Orlais but worse. She should have been more cautious and run the idea past me. I would think that is expected given we housed her, but she didn't. Maybe the Alexius manipulated her, I don't know. But as nice as she is, maybe she was stupid. Maybe her mistake is unforgiveable. She betrayed my trust, and everyone else's in the world, more or less. Now look where everyone else is, where _we_ are, trying to make up for her inanity. She practically _made _all of this happen!"

Cullen paused. As trustworthy and pleasant he had found Fiona, Alistair did have a point. "She does have a lot to answer for."

"I don't even want to know what her answers are, I don't care agreeable she can make it sound." Alistair crossed his arms, "You want to retrieve her? Fine. But I want nothing to do with her. I don't want to see her. I don't want to listen her voice. I'd be prepared – I strongly advise you leave her in the prison. No other punishment would be worthy to match how completely infuriated I am and how unreasonable and irrational her choice was!"

"Yes.": Cullen said, "It was incredibly foolish of her."

It was easy to place blame, but Cullen wasn't sure that was going to help matters. An ally was an ally and they needed as many as they could.

Alistiar exhaled and got out of the chair, "I don't want to see her ever again. I'd be very grateful if you could take heed of my warning. I'd like it if you could run your ideas past me, if it's not a bother, just to ease my restlessness and anxiety." The man appeared, for the first time since meeting him, half delusional, "Maker, I bet I could take over this whole Inquisition on my own if I wanted. But I can't, because of laying low and everything. I'm sorry. I've done too much today."

Suspecting the King was ready to retire to bed, the Commander clapped Alistair on the shoulders, urging him to get out of the chair. "Thank you for your… I appreciate having a friend in this fortress."

"You as well." Cullen said slowly, "I… I will need to think about it, but I can assure you if priorities become a measure Fiona will be the last to be retrieved."

Alistair closed his eyes and looked strangely pale. Cullen understood. If this man was hearing the Calling constantly, he could relate to the exhaustion. At his worst, the lyrium withdrawal made him hear a similar song. Maybe the two were managing an identical illness.

The King slowly got to his feet and Cullen guided him to the bed. It was a fair distance away, given how enormous the room was. The Commander pondered on Leliana and her spies. If they were still around, if there was a way to contact them, that would be ideal. If only he could just _speak_ to her.

"It would be ideal," Cullen began, turning an idea over in his head, "if we had spies, or someone who could fight but also go to Redcliffe Castle or Weisshaupt Fortress without being seen, and give some clue of what we are facing. Do you know any?"

Alistair exhaled wearily, though flashed a crooked smile. "I can talk to Josie about _possible_ allies, I wrote my fair share of letters in Redcliffe, but contacting them or knowing their whereabouts will be another challenge." He stretched out his hands, too keen to crawl into bed, "Unless this Fortress has some ghost or spirit or something, I don't know."

Cullen felt his heart leap. A _ghost_… the Inquisition did have one. It came in the form of a meddlesome child – demon, more like - with a love for big hats and disjointed speech. That might be an option, an absurd one, but….

Alistair tilted his head, confused, "What's the creepy face? You don't really have a ghost? I was only joking."

Cullen smiled, "It was a decent suggestion." He admitted, and his legs felt slightly less heavy as his spirits lightened, "I don't know if it is a ghost, I don't know what it is – did you ever speak to Cole?"

"Cole?" Alistair's eyes widened and he grinned rather silly, "That boy… I didn't think he was a ghost, though I guess that explains the sudden disappearing and lack of noise when he walks. I thought teenagers just did that? Or I was hallucinating. He is so innocent; I was wondering how he got involved. That cute little…"

"It is not cute." Cullen interrupted.

"He is _very_ cute!" Alistair disagreed, but he chuckled, "You have no empathy. It must be all the work. On the positive side, I know which one of us definitely won't be having any children!"

The Commander forced a smile. He would have laughed if he wasn't so tired, especially given Alistair was a Warden and the world was in a state of disarray. The longer he spent here, the longer Josephine would work. "It is an idea worth considering. I will run it past Josephine tomorrow. Maker knows we have a lot of work to do."

He watched as Alistair slowly moved under his covers and curled onto his side. "If it's bed time for me, it's bed time for you. Unless there was something else I missed?"

Cullen paused. After all this, he had a precognitive sense that Alistair was going to be a great ally. Maybe the Inquisition could become powerful again, despite all odds stacked against them. Deeper, he felt that he could trust Alistair with information about Evelyn.

"I am having a small service tomorrow for the Herald." Cullen said slowly, "The aim is that it remains rather private. Would you like to come?"

One of Alistair's tired eyes met Cullen's. He wasn't smiling anymore, his mind already drifting to the Fade, "I'd be honored to."

When the Commander closed the door behind him, he cursed the Maker for still having one more task to do before going to bed.

* * *

_Authors Notes:_ I got to include my head canon for my Warden! I know this chapter is very dialogue heavy, but I hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know if you have any suggestions for story points, in case I miss them. Silveriris has already suggested mentioning Florianne and Erimond.


	20. Farewell

Withdrawal… once it was safe to do so. A decent idea, in theory. It wouldn't make life easy, but it would make it less painful. Cullen tried to tell himself there was a difference between these two concepts.

It wasn't appropriate for King Alistair to take his place if too ill, as Eimear suggested, for a multitude of reasons, though the Commander would investigate. There might be another who could. So long as the Inquisition could be stable once more and mages were positioned at the Temple of Sacred Ashes…

He needed to stop thinking.

Cullen flinched as the chill of midnight tickled his skin. He desired to lock out the world, so he leaned back against the door to keep it closed, absorbing the sight. His quarters were minimalistic, small but clean. It reminded him of normalcy; of Haven… well, as ordinary as life was in war. It was vacant as his heart, but he'd endeavour to fill the void even if it was with work. That was his task and duty.

Josephine was leaving diplomacy to rest, and her mind would wander the Fade safe and tranquil. Cullen was unnerved by the prospect of sleep, not knowing what he would find. The nightmares were depraved without dosing red lyrium for a start.

He remembered on Evelyn again, on how much he missed her. He conjured Eimear's face clearer, and despised how looking at her still made him sick. There was no need to compare two women, no logical reason at all. But he should thank her, for she believed in the fight for his freedom against all odds.

So he did, and prayed timidly to the Maker, desperate to not have lyrium at the forefront of his mind, and with it the wisdom to stop drawing needless comparisons to the dead. .

_I do not wish to be bound to red lyrium, or the Order any longer. Let that be the last of my commitments, Maker, and then I will give the Inquisition a fitting conclusion. I wish I understood, but I have no idea what will happen._

It was the memory of Eimear who answered him. He could almost feel how she'd tugged on his arm in her quarters, darkness in her eyes.

"Do not worry yourself, Little Dove. Perhaps when the Inquisition has more numbers then I can help you?" and then she'd addressed his guilt, "As for Evelyn… I already know I am not human. I am part lyrium. So treating me like someone else… I don't mind. Maybe I'm a little used to it."

The Commander felt a pull in his stomach. Unintentionally denying her individuality was so wrong but she accepted the words as she'd accepted him, forever soft, patient and supportive. She was the _little dove_.

"You will always be completely human, even if Thedas crumbles and you cannot stop taking the red lyrium, for whatever reason." She'd explained, "You do more than manage armies. You inspire. Other people need you." Did she need him? "You can still do that in withdrawal. You can't if you're dead."

She had a point, the Commander repeated to himself as he removed layers to expose his underclothes, and he was reminded again that there might be an ally only days from the Inquisition's grasp that had experience in military tactics.

Irrespective of the meddling forces trying to scare him and the ambiguity about the woman named after an elf he had said "You are all human to me."

Maybe it was a lie, for to him Eimear was part ghost, but perhaps he needed her, even if she was a crutch to cope with his grief. She'd told him to embrace it too. With time, it would make life less painful, the journey would be continuous, even if the obstacles remained a frustration. He still felt very confused about it, but Eimear was coming to the memorial. That was what the conversation was supposed to be about, and he had accomplished his goal.

Cullen crawled into bed, breathing deeply to ease his anxiety. Was he going to transform into Samson? Would withdrawal be the end of him? How quickly would staying on red lyrium kill him, or might he be made insane instead?

But no, Eimear had answered that too. It had been a simple question that implied more context and possibilities that were possible to express.

"What about my mind?"

The memory was so clear it was like the present. What thought couldn't enunciate, tone could, and the fear was unshakable. Eimear reached up her hands, pressed them gently to both sides of his head and tapped it. "It's still there."

* * *

The memorial took place the following evening. It was a small affair, to Cullen's relief. The only attendees beside himself were Josephine, Eimear and Alistair. Perhaps if Leliana or Cassandra were around he'd have invited them, but there were so few left he felt close to. They departed the fortress as the sun touched the horizon.

They were dressed delicately; Josephine in a cream gown and veil, a sign of mourning in Antiva, Eimear apparently borrowed one of Josephine's dresses, a high cut bronze bust with laced white to drape her boots, while the King and Commander simply found the darkest attire they could rescue from the not yet organized ruckus of Cullen's clothes pile.

They marched through mud in silence to keep other Inquisition members away, occasionally lifting sodden leaves from their boots. The women kept their dresses lifted above their ankles, as the darkening night distorted their facial expressions.

The silence truly begun once the earth evened out. They stood still adjacent a murky pond coddled by all sides by inclines. The water didn't sound as leaves slowly rest on its surface, as though they were here to listen as well. The surface was large enough for one fishing boat, perhaps the cremated ashes of Evelyn's remains or her coffin, if there was a body to find.

"Whoops, I think I got some dirt on your sleeves, Commander – where did that even come from?" Alistair said, peering to the criss cross formation of branches above their heads.

"It doesn't matter." Cullen said dully, as Alistair paced forward and dropped a pile of broken bricks from the castle's interior at a dry patch of earth, forming the pieces into a mound. He assured them this was important, but no one knew yet what it was for.

"There will be adequate time to clean it. The rain is marvelous for the water supply. Fereldan is propitious with this climate, in pleasant contrast to other regions." Josephine said, using small talk as a shield.

To delay the pain and barricade the tears.

She brushed water droplets from a bouquet of flowers she'd compiled during a meal break. Like Alistair, she lay them in front of the pile and Eimear placed her lantern in front of them so they were more easily visible. The array of sharp pink blossoms, speckles of white and shrubberies gleamed among the muck and grass, though Cullen suspected they were weeds. It didn't matter, not really.

This was not only a farewell to Evelyn, but to the Inquisition as it once was, his friendships as they once were and his life as he knew it. They hadn't even started and already Cullen felt sombre. He clutched the notes in his hand, and hoped the ink was still legible.

Ambassador Montiliyet cleared her throat, "If none of you have preference to speak first, may I begin?"

Alistair and Eimear, not having ever met Evelyn, gave submissive nods.

It was beginning. He didn't want to listen and acknowledge the pain, but he needed to. There was no choice if he was going to regain his sanity.

Josephine stepped forward and unraveled her own piece of parchment. From next to her, Cullen noticed the page had many sections scribbled out and then re-written. It was a relief he was not the only one who had struggled with this process. In her attire it became clear of how much fragility was within her, something she hid behind her desk too.

She cleared her throat, though she didn't sound nearly as self-assured when her voice disappeared into the twilight and surrounding trees.

"As I am certain we are well aware," Josephine began, her voice faltering, "or, no, that is…" she glanced at her paper, "not right. My gravest apologies."

"Do not worry, Josephine." Cullen said.

"Try again." Eimear agreed.

"It's only us." Alistair added.

Josephine gave a shuddering breath. Her eyes glittered, but she spoke to the bricks, "I am so very sorry, once more. I… try again. Please give me a moment." She scanned her piece of paper and kept her gaze on it.

This time her sureness returned, "Thank you for taking time out of your schedules to commemorate the life that was Evelyn Trevelyan. She came from a noble House with many connections to great families in Thedas. Nevarra and Tevinter connect her line, and also there is a distant relationship to my own House, the Montilyet's."

Cullen was surprised he didn't know this, and it was so like Josephine to focus on how Evelyn's family. With all the formalities this part of her speech could definitely be reused. It was bizarre to hear how her voice echoed, that it didn't sound so familiar when out in the open air in the night, opposed from the tight confides of her office.

"Perhaps this does not mean much to those outside of my own professional interests." She admitted hastily, forcing a smile, "Evelyn… those who did not lay eyes on her, but only associated her with the Trevelyan House, even they knew she was important. If I may be allowed to be sentimental," _please do_, thought Cullen, "I found her a very charming young lady with a natural curiosity for Thedas's vast lands, mystery and its diverse people. House Trevelyan has a strict loyalty to the Chantry, so…. My first conversation with Evelyn was intriguing, to say the least," she chuckled morosely, "I admit it was appealing – that she was irritated by the austere conjectures by Chancellor Roderick and disagreed with a number of opinions by Mother Giselle." The Ambassador sounded livelier, "I do not know how she related to her family… but I thought – how wonderful, this is a sign of a free spirit. She did not subscribe to the traditions of her family, though she respected them, and she had no reason to take a leadership role in the Inquisition, but she did of her own passion and determination. Her families motto is, from what I know of my own family, 'Modest in temper, bold in deed'. I find this suitable to describe her. She only had anger in protest of injustice, for the care of others, and her deeds were, whether small like retrieving me a cup of tea, or bigger, were bold and extraordinary."

The Ambassador paused. Cullen looked to the ground to try hide his watering eyes from view.

"I personally did not know Evelyn as completely as I would have preferred." Josephine admitted, sounding reluctant, "I am grateful for every time I had a spare moment to converse with her. With ties to our Houses, I considered her family in some respects. I foolishly assumed… I believe I took her presence for granted. I do not know, possibly it is not so infrequent an experience. For that I sincerely apologize, Evelyn. She was a friend. I wished I had made more time to know her. I regret that she departed so mysteriously from us, and at the feet of our enemies."

There was the crumpling of paper and Cullen thought it was over until Josephine spoke again, more businesslike.

"From what I read of her report, it was this same desire for helping those in need that… well… it is disheartening that it was her admirable qualities that placed her in danger." Her voice shook a little, and she took a moment to breathe. "But I do not think it is right to shame her. She left us at a moment of true bravery. She is… at the Makers side because she stood tall – _very_ tall, I admit, she was taller than me - and fought. She lived up to the name of the Herald of Andraste and gave us hope in a dark time. That is what, I believe, the Inquisition should continue to do, no matter how much danger befalls us or what is to come." She sniffled, "I am so sorry for being so formal, it is a habit that makes me not well versed in writing for such a purpose. T-Thank you for listening so patiently. May Andraste guide you, Evelyn, and may you Guide us from his side. Thank you."

"Thank you." Alistair and Eimear said, almost in unison.

There was a pause, and Cullen found himself in a kind of stupor. Was he really meant to talk now?

"Very eloquently put, Ambassador." he said. His joints felt stiff and his throat was trying to split on him. "I suppose…."

"Yes, it is your turn, Commander." Josephine assured him, reverting back to mannerisms, the tears only now welling up in her eyes.

Cullen was impressed she'd kept them to herself for so long. He wasn't sure he would do so well. Why was he doing this to himself again? He picked out his parchment and stared at it, like Josephine had, glanced at Eimear and prayed it would get easier.

The Commander stepped forward, feeling the cold of the night as everybody became more difficult to see. "I'm sorry to say I don't think my speech can live up to the brilliance of Josephine's, but… I will try not to repeat what has already been said."

Eimear and Alistair politely waited, free of judgment and expectations.

"You can do it." Josephine assured him, giving an encouraging squeeze of his wrist.

Cullen only nodded. The world was an emptier place without Evelyn, and he felt like it wouldn't get better.

His eyes filled with tears.

He searched for the first line of information that was deviant from his colleague and began.

"I first met Evelyn at the Inquisition camp outside the Temple of Sacred Ashes." He started, scolding himself already because it sounded recited, "Cassandra let me know she was the prisoner, the one who some suspected destroyed the Conclave. I remember thinking, _I'm quite sure she has never been in a prison before. This must be the wrong person. _There was a conviction in her, from the start, the stance of a leader. I think I believed she was innocent, perhaps unknowingly, though I'd hardly said hello." Unwillingly he peeked at Eimear again, trying to picture the way Evelyn had looked in her muddy clothes, but it was too difficult, "Cassandra, Leliana, Josephine, Evelyn and I formed our… _team_." His throat hurt, "I regret that Cassandra and Leliana also remain missing. My hope is that we can retrieve them, anyway… I am getting side tracked." He looked down at his piece of paper as he heard Josephine's upset become more pronounced. "And so we worked. It always comes down to that. Work, more work for one to manage… I tire of it. Though, like Josephine, I am eternally grateful –" his voice broke, "- and immensely heartbroken that it is what kept all of us together, yet the ultimate cause of our divide."

"Andraste, I am so sorry." Josephine was mumbling to herself about trying not to cry too loud, even as tears fell. Eimear muttered some words and walked over to her. He could only assume she was comforting Josephine. He could hardly see. He had to focus on his speech.

He wanted to believe it would get easier.

"Like Josephine, I did not have much opportunity to speak with Evelyn, but I enjoyed the few conversations I had with her." Cullen continued, "She had a lot of energy and was willing to learn. I wondered how she fit it all in her head. Perhaps there was a Breach all on its own in there somewhere." He removed the light tone, "Clearly, she was well educated. She knew a lot about history and the Templar Order. I was… impressed, I suppose." He realized his mouth was going dry. He took a moment to recover. "It was rather funny looking back on it. One time, surrounded by soldiers training she asked me about celibacy vows."

Alistair tried to conceal an appreciative grin.

"A completely inappropriate time and place, of course," Cullen mentioned, and he noticed Josephine had even quietened her sniffling, "I got… flustered. I think she noticed I was uncomfortable as she left me alone, though she did mention I ought to relax around her. She was only trying to make "friendly conversation". By the Maker, yes, _friendly_…. too friendly, perhaps?"

He paused to gauge reactions, though there was only intrigue on their faces. "I started to wonder if she was flirting with me."

"Uh, if I can interrupt," Alistair said, "Yes, she was."

"I agree." Josephine said, trying not to break the flow of his recollections.

Eimear shook her head.

Cullen felt disheartened, "Ah, right. In that case it doesn't help my last memory of her."

He sighed, looking at the parchment again. This was the last memory to recall, the last set of notes on his piece of paper. Maybe it wouldn't matter to them but it did to him. "The night before departing to Redcliffe I went down to The Singing Maiden in Haven, to spend some time by myself. To get away from the Inquisition… but it was like there was no escaping it. I didn't truly grasp it until then. Every so often someone would try to start a conversation with me, whether it be my soldiers, the village people, or Maker help me, the bard!" Alistair chuckled at that, "by the time Evelyn came to say hello, I was so worn out, I didn't check who it was. I told her to leave me alone."

Josephine clasped her hands over her mouth like it was an enthralling theatre performance.

Cullen realized he was finally crying, "I was incredibly humbled that she decided to stay anyway. If she didn't have a sense of humour, that would have been the end of it. She said, 'I don't believe that's what you say to the Herald of Andraste!' which, well. 'Sorry, sorry,' I rushed, making a complete idiot out of myself. She laughed, said she was only joking, asked if I wanted a drink. I told her I'd already had two. Evelyn… now I see more than ever I was not thinking properly." He looked down at his boots as he heard the tears distort his voice to something that barely sounded English, "she asked if I wanted to go somewhere quieter, away from everybody, meanwhile, she was practically digging her knuckles into my shoulders, like they were suddenly… I don't know. Painful. I considered buying her a drink, I deliberated going with her, but I didn't. I said I was tired, thanked her for the offer and went to back to my quarters in the Chantry. 'How about next time?' I said, and she agreed."

"Right." Alistair didn't sound awfully amused, "I think that's the Inquisition record for the most oblivious encounter with a woman ever. Can we all agree on this?"

"As much as I concur, that is hardly the proper time?" Josephine said, pointedly.

Eimear was the only one who didn't seem surprised.

"It also doesn't help," The Commander's anger and sadness burst unimpeded, "How was I supposed to know there wouldn't be a next time? Could I have been expected to interpret her flirtations seriously when I had other things on my mind, important matters? But that's it. I only realize now…" he took a moment to wipe the salt stinging his lips, "sometimes distractions have a place, and sometimes they are _good_."

He sighed, "and so Evelyn, I hope you can hear me from the Maker's side. I'm sorry for everything." He thought of how she had looked decorated by sunlight and how she'd smelled near him in the tavern, "For what I did and didn't do, that I couldn't prevent your death or save you. If I could have done it over again, I would have made sure you wouldn't have slipped away. It hurts more than I dare to admit, though I'm hoping you can guess." He became a mess of emotion for a few moments, "That is all. I, again, appreciate you all being here."

"Thank you for sharing such a personal account." Josephine said.

"You stole all the formalities away." Cullen countered, trying to grin so it wouldn't hurt.

"You did well, Little Dove."

"Thank you."

Cullen didn't want to look at Eimear yet. He heard the crunch of leaves which was Alistair stepping forward.

"I… didn't know Evelyn," his voice went strange at the name, like afraid he was pronouncing it wrong, "but I found an excerpt from the Chant that I thought represented the 'Herald of Andraste' title, so I can say goodbye to the symbol she was to so many. Can I read it?"

Josephine appeared as pleasantly surprised as Cullen felt. "Do not hesitate. Any contribution would be a delight."

Cullen, nonplussed, wondered what section he had chosen.

Alistair took out a piece of paper he'd scribbled on, "This is from The Canticle of Exaltations, depicting Kordillus Drakon's vision of the Maker's return."

So he read in an unnatural drone, "_I covered my face, fearful, But the Lady took my hands from my eyes, saying, "Remember the fire. You must pass through it alone to be forged anew._"

Cullen thought of Evelyn telling him to be strong.

"_Look! Look upon the Light so you may lead others here through the darkness, blade of the Faith_!" Alistair recounted. Like with the Chant, it filled the arena with warmth and comfort, the trees vibrating with the meaning, "_In dread I looked up once more, and saw the darkness warp and crumble. For it was thin as samite, a fragile shroud over the Light… which turned it to ash_."

"Thank you, Alistair." Eimear said, and she stepped forward too, not caring to lift her dress. "I would like to mark this as a sacred place where we can go and remember Evelyn."

She picked up the lantern and carried it to the mound of bricks like it was a candle. "Alistair said no one could find any indication of what the fortress is called, so I'd like to offer my input. My mother was an elf, though my father was not, he was very fond of their culture. I guess it is obvious I received most of my father's genetics." She indicated her ears, which were very much human, "He learned the basics of elvish. One of those words was 'Arla'. It means home… even if the departed of Haven and Evelyn are at the Maker's side, and the village in ruin, I think Evelyn would like to be remembered in Arla, a place that is loved and its people can form friendships and family."

Cullen thought this was a heartfelt sentiment, but had lost the capability to speak from the upset.

Eimear crouched on the ground and with a squeak the lantern opened. She took out some dried grass from one of her pockets, placed it on top of the pile of bricks and from the gushing sound that followed, set it alight.

The woman stood back to Cullen's other side as the miniscule fire danced in the muggy air. The lantern was closed again, ever flickering.

"Remember Haven in flames. Remember the departed." Eimear said in a solemn, calm tone. "Remember Evelyn. _Remember the fire. _Gather what she inspired in us."

Cullen felt Josephine clutch onto his arm, and he felt the wetness from her face brush against his skin. "I worry more than is needed," she mumbled, "I pray not any more will leave us."

He didn't have much more to say on this topic. They all knew there was work to be done. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and watched Eimear stare into that fire hissing with the spoke of blackening flowers.

Perhaps it was the dark, or the humidity, or the fading light, but Eimear looked very different. With tears still dripping down his face, he knew, he finally understood. This woman didn't have much in common with Evelyn. It wasn't only personality or history.

Eimear didn't look like Evelyn either. Besides the blonde of her hair, there was a meek resemblance. Even the streaks had split ends and were uneven. Her muscles toned differently, the cheekbones gave an exotic danger to her and her eyebrows were more rounded. This woman knew murder. Her posture was somewhat lopsided. The features were harsher, intense. Her skin had scarring and roughness. It was her eyes that were beyond recognition.

In them, beyond the smoke, was the unforgivable tension of vengeance. This woman wasn't here to inspire, but to tear the world asunder. She might be the very opposite to Evelyn, a creature born from these ashes and flame, her purpose to slander her enemies.

Eimear looked away from the fire, dazed and distant, at Cullen. She spotted something further away, perhaps into his soul. It wasn't a great time to look, as his heart was full of anguish.

She desired to avenge her family, the world, the Inquisition and now him.

A small smile curled her lips, as though saying "_I'm sure she must have heard you_".

Little did Cullen know, that the spirit of the White Spire heard it all, and some of the voices disappeared.

* * *

_Authors Notes:_ The first section of this chapter was changed because I hated it. The structure of the chapters will change from now on! Thanks to silveriris for bouncing ideas off me, and welcome to my new readers.

I watched the Memorial for Christina Grimmie on Youtube before finishing the draft for this. RIP.


	21. Allies

Leliana's persecution began without sustenance in the same bedchamber she rested. She was permitted to relieve herself in the garderobe and bathe in a small tub but it was otherwise the only walls she knew. It was no blessing. There was drinking water, but not enough to disparage her thirst. Without castile soap to abolish sweat from her clothes, they developed the nauseating stench of mold.

It was impossible to decipher if her feverish disposition was from starvation, apathy or her garments.

There were no opportunities for entertainment, not even tales of fiction or a copy of the Chant of Light. But the Maker was with her. She did not complain or show weakness around the Venatori or the Red Templars guarding her, though she overheard broken conversation if she stood in just the right place and tilted her neck at a precise angle. She received clues of what her enemies were seeking, and even smaller increments of how, but the whys remained a mystery. It was probably a deliberate precaution, probably of General Samson's doing.

How severely she hated that Templar!

Then the surroundings changed. She was brought to a room close to the dungeons. She was chained to the ground by shackles and left in darkness for hours. The boredom and lack of stimulation was a trying affliction. But she would stay strong. She sung hymms to herself and recited the Chant so many times even she got sick of it.

It was a Red Templar who drenched a red silk cloth in red lyrium and stuffed it into her mouth. Leliana refused to suck in the mixture but it was absorbing by merely having it there. So she spat it out, but it was a futile attempt to deny the substance. The next to check on her, whether Alexius, the Venatori or Red Templars, prodded it back in without fail. One guard enjoyed provoking her gag reflex. If only she could expel her stomach contents onto him!

Sadly the Maker did not think the timing was right. Her sick always hit the silk first and then she had to endure the acid that scorched her throat on the way back down. It was better to just keep it lightly between her teeth, as to not chew on grime, but even the _smell_ made her woozy.

The hallucinations were purgatory. There was fire, melting flesh, screams and demons that scavenged on the remains of corpses, and half the time she wasn't sure if she'd actually fallen asleep or was awake and insane.

"Are you going to talk yet, little bird?" said the guard she hated the most.

"No." Leliana mumbled, and the cloth would fall to the ground.

It got forced back in twice as hard. "Not even some manners?"

"No."

This process repeated itself so many times Leliana wondered if she was starting to hallucinate about that too. To think the Red Templars regularly drank this horror of a concoction – it was depravity!

Finally, at some immeasurable point in time a voice she could put a name to entered her ears.

"There's still a way out, Spymaster Nightengale. I wouldn't forget our heart-to-heart if I were you."

His mouth clicked with stickiness like that of the Brood Mother. It was so close, repulsive and awful. Samson. He even sounded amused.

The Spymaster didn't open her eyes. Even if the guards brought lanterns, and the yellow haze blurred from behind her closed lids, she didn't want to acknowledge the foul excuse of a person in front of her.

He removed the cloth from her teeth.

"Or you can keep being like this. You'll join the assassins without any help from me!"

He laughed.

"I hate you." Leliana said, all reasons for holding back lost.

"Not news, ducky."

She felt his breath now. He couldn't have been a few inches away.

"But you can give me news. There's still chances. Time will be kind if you want to make yourself glorious." He paused, "You sure you don't want to give one little Inquisition secret for your Chantry hating friend?"

"You're vile, loutish and I am lost as to what Calpernia admires about you." She snarled.

"Oh?" Samson sounded interested, "You want me to get her? She can explain much better. I am too profane and whatnot. Though… can't promise she'll be as nice!"

"You're not nice."

"Yes, I am. You're just a Chantry worshiping slag."

"I pray you burn in Andraste's fire."

"Eh, not a bad idea. Maybe I need my toes sizzled in this frost. Hmm! I'll get Tevinter's Champion for you. Blight knows I can't stand watching you so… miserable."

The word implied the Templar General cared for her. How it was irritating.

She held the fabric back between her teeth and her voice was muffled.

"Good. Go away."

From the footsteps as she spoke and the return to darkness, it seemed he'd already gone.

Leliana wasn't sure how long it was until Calpernia became audible, but her voice gradually drew nearer. It was possible the red lyrium amplified her hearing as she was certain they were in a corridor. Much like before, it was too dark to see.

"The Spymaster wished to confront me?" Calpernia uttered.

"Just a little chat." Samson assured her, "About all important foolery."

"And you are not more qualified to reply? I will not reveal any plans of the Venatori or the Elder One."

"Noo, no, no…" Samson coaxed her. "Talk to Leliana about me."

Leliana took note that the General remembered her name.

"And why is that necessary?" Calpernia said smoothly.

"Because."

A tense pause followed.

"Yes?"

"Shame to see her go to waste. She's not as paper thin as the other prisoners. They're hopeless and dull, but not that one. Trust me."

The dialogue is broken by another silence.

"I have no need to speak to her."

"Then torture her or something." It was a hasty attempt to remedy the conversation. "I'm only lending advice."

"True." Calpernia sounded a lot calmer. "Sit."

Leliana wasn't sure she was meant to have overheard the first part of the conversation, but now Calpernia was nearer. Her exhalations were felt on Leliana's neck.

"Samson, why does _that_ lay between her teeth?"

"What? It _is_ mine."

Were they speaking about the red fabric?

Calpernia tugged it gently between her fingers and Leliana's jaw was free once more.

"I do not believe using it for this purpose is suitable."

"Yeah, it is. That's exactly what it was made for."

Was the red silk a means to gag each other? How devious.

"I doubt that you apprehend for _who_ it was designated."

Leliana smirked.

Their discussion was becoming more heated and swift by the second…. and also rich with secrets.

"Do you want to keep it? Go ahead."

"Please, do tell." Leliana said. This was the most entertainment she'd had in Maker knows how many hours. "Or flog Samson. It would please everybody."

"You think too highly of yourself, Sister Nightengale." Calpernia purred, "And I will gnaw at that silk in your mouth before I strike the Red Templar General, as much as it troubles me that I refuse."

"Awww, but what if I asked really nicely?" Samson said, his voice from the far left.

Leliana tried not to laugh. They were such fools.

"My doubts have been verified. You truly have no comprehension of when to keep your thoughts to yourself." Calpernia muttered.

Leliana chuckled.

"See, she likes it." even the General sounded amused, "Tell us the truth, Leliana. What… power role do you play in… relationship _tactics_?"

Leliana didn't answer. This was one of his filthy questions. It had to be. Was this supposed to imply that _she_ liked to force silk into others mouths?

Noticing her reaction, she took a deep breath and listened to the silence. This was how he got information out of her, by making her lose focus. She had to remain calm no matter how inappropriate the questions were.

Calpernia didn't answer either.

"Do you want to flog some people?" Samson probed, "The torturers probably need it. Their egos are getting too much for some of the kinder recruits. That would be a pleasant venture from the dungeon, right? I'd do it myself… but I like helping others a little more. How 'bout it, Sister Nightengale?"

"I'd step on you, if it was allowed." Leliana said, hate oozing in her voice, "and then I'd drive a dagger into your back and kill you."

Silence.

"I know what I'm betting on." Samson said.

_I do not care if you are right or wrong, or what you speak of, _Leliana insulted. _you are disgusting. _

"I was under the impression I was supposed to be speaking?" Calpernia asked.

"Then bleeding _talk_, woman."

Calpernia hesitated, "If I am to praise you, I ask that you leave."

"Leave?"

'Yes."

"You'll tell me later though, right?"

Calpernia must have given Samson a very angry look.

_Did the Maker curse them with awful communication at birth?_ Leliana wondered.

"Okay, okay. Was only sucking up to Leliana as much as possible. Bye, sweetie."

The door closed. Leliana recalled when Samson had referred to her by that term when she hadn't been locked away. Perhaps this was a means to exploit Calpernia's weaknesses.

"Was that intended for me?" she said, removing animosity from her tone.

"It does not matter." Calpernia said.

"You may not believe so, but it is a serious betrayal of trust." Leliana ensured her, "It means he is being unfaithful."

It was clear then she'd discovered the most vexing words, for a sizzling zap of electricity coursed through her body sprawling from the mage's fingers. The rogue would have screamed if the current wasn't forcing her jaw closed.

It was obvious what the Venatori Champion's weakness was. Calpernia was angry. Not only that. Similar to how Samson had annoyed Leliana enough to lose her inhibitions, she guessed an identical occurrence was happening with Calpernia. Already she was resorting to violence. Samson was right. He was terrible, but his colleague was worse.

There was no more dialogue until the stream of electricity ceased.

"It is ambitious that he is trying to recruit you into his ranks." Calpernia said disgruntled, "And just as well, Spymaster. The day you are permitted into the Venatori is a future where I've perished."

Leliana hesitated. As tempting as it was, she probably shouldn't tease Calpernia much more this day to avoid bloodshed. It seemed Samson was going to do plenty of that later anyway. However, there was another angle she could take. "You are very angry at me. Samson said it was because I found out about your tryst."

There was a moment of hesitation, and then, "This should not be a bewildering revelation."

"Why does it concern you so?" Leliana pressed, feeling somewhat calmer, "There is no one here who would find the information of value."

"I prefer my private life remaining as intended" Calpernia said calmly, "The information free to roam or hide is as valuable as it is painful and close to my heart, Sister Nightengale."

It was almost as though she'd given up in fighting. She confessed to holding her times with Samson in high esteem which, unless the General had lied, did not match what he'd said.

"Samson said it didn't mean anything."

Leliana's teeth got knocked painfully as Calpernia slapped her. "You make assumptions about matters you do not understand. Perhaps our bond is not significant enough to procure gifts. I am no fool, nor am I thoughtless enough to disagree, but there remains a sentiment, or he would ignore me."

"Ah, yes, clearly he does not ignore you." Leliana said, "He teases and bickers instead. That is hardly something to be proud of."

"I am aware that you intend to toy with me." Calpernia said, "So declare your motivations to me unless you desire greater hardship."

"I am clueless as to the answer." the Spymaster invented. She hoped an opportunity would arise to have better conditions or receive information for the Inquisition, "I need to pass the hours. Now please remember Samson requested so politely that you to sway my opinion about him."

"You forget, Sister Nightengale." The blonde ventured darkly, "There is nothing halting me from advising him I will attempt to do so another time. I can deny completion of this favour. I can abandon you to your sensory deprived life."

That shut Leliana up. She didn't want that. Taunting her enemies was fun, though as inappropriate as it was, she wasn't much in a state to restrain herself.

The mage, apparently pleased with this reaction, became more businesslike.

"Inform me of the reasons you spurn the General?" she quipped.

"He is disgusting." Leliana said, "in every possible way."

Calpernia didn't directly answer this, "And that is your reason for refusing the Red Templars?"

"No, I do not wish to join them because they're evil. Their cause is unjust and an insult to Thedas."

The Tevinter Champion paused, considering Leliana's thoughts. "The Elder One's reasoning is more appropriately discussed in his presence. He has plans for every aspect of Thedas. Perhaps he can share with you his plans for whatever sections of this world you praise and value."

"I never want to speak to that monster." Leliana spat.

"Speaking is not required of your ears." Calpernia replied.

That was true, though listening could be dangerous given _minute_ amounts of Samson's logic made sense. Leliana had to stay strong. She couldn't give in.

"Even if his reasoning pertained to my self-interests, you are both terrible. I prefer the Inquisition more."

"Perhaps that is no fault but your own, Sister Nightengale."

Leliana wasn't sure what to say to that, unable to think as quickly as usual. Though she decided she should attempt to minimize talk with either Samson or Calpernia.

She realized this would be difficult because they were more entertaining than the others in the Castle.

"Very well, so do you agree Samson is foul?"

"He is merely a man who has seen a lot of the world's horrors and lived to share his accounts."

"He is vulgar and the red lyrium has destroyed whatever good looks he might have had."

"I am not nearly as trivial as you are, Sister Nightengale." Calpernia said, "In fact, I find _your_ attitude abhorrent and unappealing." She paced a few steps, "General Samson has an occasional temper, but he is loyal to his friends and followers alike. His sense of humour is warped – indeed, he jokes when he should not, but my conversations with him have been thought-provoking. Not desiring him as a leader in war is a poor choice, no matter the side one chooses to take."

_Thought provoking?_ Leliana wondered if it was a joke, though it was clearer than ever the Venatori Champion was fond of him. Even if this information was futile to the Inquistion, Leliana couldn't suppress her own prying interest, not with so little to entertain her. "You pine for him, Calpernia. Not only is it a physical daring, either. You feel strongly for him, and that is the reason you did not wish him to listen to the conversation. You're afraid he will betray you, that he does not care for you the same."

Calpernia slowly exhaled through her nose onto Leliana's neck twice, and then she said. "I entreat you learn to appreciate sensory deprivation, Spymaster Nightengale. Your comments mean little. I intended to tell General Samson the entirety of this conversation. I prefer to express my thoughts unimpeded. You know nothing of who I am and those I love."

That was when the silk dropped to the floor, Calpernia left and Leliana resumed the slow rotting of her mind.

Was Calpernia serious, and why did Leliana even care?

* * *

In a busy narrow street, the Rivani pulled her gaze from a portly woman practically wearing a dog on her head – or maybe it was fake? Was it a hat? Was it a mirage from being out at sea for so long?

Only the Maker knew.

_So this is __Jader. _Isabela acknowledged, placing her hands on her hips. _What a confused city. Probably even more mentally ruined than I am._

There was not much wrong with how it looked. The landscapes would look pleasant sketched in a frame. The tall, cramped housing was painted with bright pastel like the richest of the rich in Hightown, but the layout was like Denerim, square, disorganized and plain weird. It was like the city dwellers couldn't decide if they wanted association with Fereldan or Orlais.

Isabela admitted the lack of identity made crude sense being on the border of these two powerful regions, but the locals liked to bicker about who the true founders were. From the limestone monuments, there were two noble and unlikable brothers who competed with each other. For what? Either their mother's affection or the heart of a girl depending on whom was asked.

They departed their estates in Halamshiral trying to find riches, came across this city as one does when wasting time, but it was already occupied. The men killed two dozen Templars from Kinloch Hold in order to claim it as their own.

Those with Fereldan backgrounds argued it was an invasion while Orleasian's claimed it was a fair duel that ended in the brother's favor.

Who gave a toss really? Sometimes history persisted even when it was based on stupid. The City had no other glory to speak of, so this was the only fun Jaders had when recounting the past.

She entered a straighter and narrower street, a market of all places. At least she thought that's what it was. Every few meters of space was a shop, and each stretch had a red overlay that was more or less a broken umbrella that tried to look like a flower. Proof again that Jader's architects had planned the city drunk and then decided to say 'Hell with it all' when the hangover came around the next morning.

The dark skinned woman stopped by a stack of crates that were filled with clothes. What a pleasant change, instead of fruit, bread or fancy knife sets for kitchens.

_Everyone knows that's not what they'd really be used for, _she reasoned, moving out of the way so the Jaders could pass. The shade was almost violent as she dug her fingers into fabrics. Patches of white obscured her vision and her eyes adjusted.

"Excuse you sweet man, is there somewhere away from prying eyes where I can try these on?" Isabela requested, picking up a chestnut corset and a black skirt she liked from the pile.

An elderly man with a spikey glasses frame peered up at her. "Of course there is, lady. Bristow or Prevost style?"

_They can't even refer to Orlais and Fereldan, typical_. Isabela thought, "I like the style of the dueller who fights fair. Which one was that?"

The salesman leaned back in his chair and his posture opened in welcome interest, "Who do you think?"

_Shit, you need to do better than that, Isabela,_ she urged, "Templars are moral and almighty. I bet they got stabbed in the back very hard."

The man rummaged through the crate to his right and pulled out a chestnut long coat, "Try this one on then, beautiful lady."

Isabela grinned appreciatively, "Thank you."

As she sneaked to the back of the small shop and went behind a curtain, she was proud no one would find her here.

* * *

She wanted the clothes, so she would get them. Sadly, the salesman wasn't so keen on generosity.

"How about 60 silver?" Isabela suggested, "I can find you better materials from Antiva when I visit again."

"I'm not changing it." the man said firmly, "Not after the Green storm came again last week."

The Green Sky Thing… whatever it was, everyone knew it was bad news, so it was a terrifying moment when it reappeared and there was a fresh wave of demons to kill. She was lucky for being on a ship at the time. The waves had only gotten rougher for a number of hours. "Only for three days. I think it's an improvement over last it opened. Don't you think that's kind of brilliant? Certain people know how to handle green in their life."

"Those would be the Inquisition. Their scouts have been roaming the streets for days, trying to help us. If they want to so desperately, bring back our bloody economy from forty years ago, I say. Some of them might appreciate the price of these clothes."

The woman knew she'd hit a jackpot. She'd been searching for word of the Inquisition for a while now, but wherever she went people either hadn't heard of them or said she'd missed them. This was perfect, and if they'd helped with the Green Sky Thing, even more amazing.

"Fine. I'll get the hat." Isabela said, placing the small raggedy hat on her head, "and do you have anything for a misbehaving man?"

She searched the small purse in her bust for ten silver.

"Hmm…" the man hummed to himself, "There is a belt vendor three stalls away."

"A fine guess, old man, but he doesn't like that toy. And don't start. I know. He has no taste for the lovely niceties in life." Isabela said, leaning forward so she could whisper, "I need something to attract attention, what a handsome man wouldn't be caught dead in. What do you think would make those Inquisition scouts wet themselves in excitement?"

The salesman started to mumble an Orleasian song to him and sort through clothes, though it was apparent Isabela's comments had not offended him. "He needs a hat like yours, lady. A couple that dresses similar always steals attention. Please, I still recommend a belt. Jaders leather is unlike any other, and the saleswoman is a close family friend of mine. She needs the coin." He finally found a hat which looked almost identical to hers.

Isabela picked it up too and placed the coin on the table. She didn't have that many savings left.

"I'll try out the leather. Now where are these adorable scouts? I've always wanted to meet one."

The man sighed and picked up a book he'd left on the table, "What time is it? Aahh, if they are not in the tavern they said they'd go searching the Docks."

The pirate knew where she'd return first.

* * *

She visited the Docks to secure her new hats and make sure bandits hadn't decided to set her ship on fire. She lost her crew when she'd arrived, so they wouldn't see her for hours yet. The mission was to: split up and make as many friends as possible – though not only from a brothel. Finding the Inquisition and not dying was the priority.

The sky was that weird grey colour that reminded Isabela of rotten fish or worse the Qunari. Gladly, her boat was still marvelous. It was appropriately large. It had everything one would want in a boat. The foremast, mainmast and mizzenmast had three large white sails each, and the hull was deep and majestic. No one had damaged it and nothing was stolen.

There was no Inquisition though. Damn.

As she jumped back onto the wooden harbor a bulky, heavily bearded man crossed his arms.

"Are you going to pay the rest of your fee?" he asked. The voice was mostly Fereldan with a touch of Orleasian on some syllables.

This bastard would have a hard time getting coin out of her, given she didn't have much. However the Rivain put on a smile and tried to look as innocent as possible.

"I think you mean the woman with no fashion sense over there." Isabela said, pointing to a random boat in the distance. Of course there was no such thing. She was only toying.

"No. Joel said you'd paid one sovereign." The stranger grumbled, deadpan, "The fee is three sovereigns."

"Oh, there's your mistake. I get it now. You see, we had an agreement, a very special one." Isabela assured him, presenting her chest like a bird, "he's a very grumpy kitten but I was going to treat him to a drink later. That's much more fun than docking fees. Even a man as serious as you would agree?"

The man scrunched up his nose which made his beard move ever so slightly, "He changed his mind."

"Why?" Isabela didn't show weakness. She aimed to confuse the fellow. "Are you sure about that?"

"Yes. His wife said he isn't supposed to be drinking."

"She said, _he_ didn't," Isabela pointed out, though internally she cursed. This was a problem. Wives handled their men, not the other way around… and the one gold she'd given for the boat was her last! "Would you like to go for a drink in his place? Come on. I'll make it worth your while, many times over."

The man was stolid and stern, not too different from a dwarf after a day in the mines. She knew the answer before it was said.

"No."

This employee of Joel's had no sense of humor.

There was only one more strategy left. The one that more often than not killed people... Isabela lifted her dagger from her back and observed it, "Jaders like dueling. Do you?"

"Give the last coin you have or move your boat somewhere else." the man said.

_What a disgrace to the locals,_ Isabela thought, though she waved her dagger around ostentatiously, "A woman needs her belly filled. And…" she grinned, "I guess other parts of me might need filling too."

There wasn't even a blush or flinch. Did the man have anything down his pants? "The boss needs food as much as you."

"There's a novel plan." Isabela said, pleased she was getting somewhere. "Let's share a meal."

"Boss isn't round for me to ask."

"Because that wasn't completely obvious." She fought not to roll her eyes, "Where is the big boy Joel then?"

"Having a late breakfast."

Isabela walked up to him, but the man blocked the way. The path was narrow and this stranger was large enough to fill the space.

She sighed as a bird flew overhead. She didn't like resorting to the crazy person answer. With unmatched precision, Isabela pointed the length of the blade to the man's throat, pressing the wiry mass out of the way.

"Move or the seagulls will be pecking their breakfast from your corpse."

It was a threat, but even Isabela knew how to make that sound charming.

The bloke was a smart one, for he moved away, still not flinching or reacting like his thick eyebrows were frozen. "We have a late breakfast to attend."

* * *

The Rivani pirate finally decided that Jader at least knew how to design a pretty tavern. It looked more like a restaurant, and the prices weren't cheap, but it was her favourite part of the city so far. It was bustling with life - maybe too much of it - and the loudness of an accordion.

A scrawny man pushing fifty with hardly any eyebrows sat on the opposite side of the table.

Their elbows barely fit on the tiny polished surface.

"Isabela." Joel said, pushing his stewed apples and millet away. "I do understand that the finances of the world's people have sporadically disappeared, but that is all the more reason. Can you find work? You may stay, but you cannot leave until you pay the fee."

His accent was odd though somewhat charming in its ability not to be identified. Fine. If Joel said there would be no compromise, she'd do the right thing and work it off.

"Farewell gold." Isabela affirmed, much happier to talk to a rational person. "Kind of like how you pay some whores. Are there any mercenary groups here?"

"There are _members_ of various Bristow or Prevost mercenary groups, though I have given the contacts and names to the Inquisition already." Joel said. "If you would like work, they are the best ones to approach." He pointed beyond Isabela's head to a table in the far back. It accommodated a motley crowd of seven… and paperwork all over the surface of the table. "Over there. We spoke to the young one."

"Then it's obvious where I have to go." Isabela said, feeling hopeful. This couldn't have been more perfect. She was looking for these exact people. Also she knew she could earn about 10 gold today if the job wasn't too difficult.

Raising herself high to see past the many heads, she frowned. They all looked _young_ by her standards. "Do you mean the one with the broken nose? I should be able to pay you by this evening if nothing terrible happens like the sky turning green again. Is here fine?"

"Tomorrow by sundown at the latest…No, non…" Joel's words slurred together as he leaned forward to be more specific. "That one with the blades – blends into the crowd well. They call him Scout Turner or Eton."

Now Isabela knew who Joel was talking about. Behind three young adults in impressive armor, there was a boy between seventeen and twenty three if she had to guess, sipping carefully at a pint. His legs were uncrossed and he looked as civilized as the other Jaders. He was _cute_ in a 'cuddle me' kind of way - perfect for an introduction to the Inquisition!

_Good._ She thought_, I was getting sick of pompous assholes. About time someone adorable comes along to interest me._

Grinning broadly, she squeezed out of her chair – the tables were close together – and head toward the young one Joel identified.

The tavern was so hectic and overpopulated it took the rest of the accordion piece until she reached the table. Once she did, four pairs of eyes looked up at her, and it wasn't only the men who were intrigued.

"How can we help you?" one called a tad too loud. Probably tipsy.

"Me?" Isabela put on a wide smile, wagging a finger. "What does any lady want in a tavern, boys?"

It was loud enough there was little risk of being overheard.

"Drinks!" one said.

"Coin." Said another, "or a fun time!"

"Shut up!" scolded a woman, shaking her metal pen to get ink out of it. "You're such sexist pigs." She looked up at Isabela, "Really though, is there anything we can do?"

"My name is Isabela." She said with utmost confidence. Now she was close enough she pressed her fingers gently into the back of the scout. "You're the Inquisition, aren't you? The amazing ones who made the Green Sky Thing stop?"

"That's us!" called out the men jovially, but Isabela wasn't watching them anymore. She looked down at the young man in the seat nearest who was peering innocently up at her. He smiled as carefree as if they were family. His brown hair perfectly matched his eyes, adding to the conviction that maybe the Maker didn't just make up bollocks. This was the best person she'd met in Jader yet, no doubt about it.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Isabela." He said, holding out a hand, "Name's Eton Turner, scout and courier of the Inquisition. Are you looking to aid our cause? It would be a great honor if you could. We need all the help we can get."

"I wouldn't dream turn down such a polite scout, Courier Turner." Isabela said, shaking his hand. "I think you require my aid as much as I need yours. Can I sit? That isn't rude here, is it?"

Turner, still appearing carefree and innocent, stood out of his own seat and offered it to Isabela. "Please take mine. And do get comfortable. My legs are too tired from being still in one spot for too long."

"Thank you very much." She said, sitting down.

With Turner's endearing manners, it was impossible not to elaborate on her plan and get straight to the point.

"I need two jobs done, and they shouldn't be difficult." The pirate said briskly, handing Turner back his drink, "Firstly, I need to work for you so I can pay back a bloody docking fee for my ship. Two, I need to work for you because I can help you a great deal. I have more allies and men then I can count on my fingers. _Or_ my toes. Besides my gorgeous ship and crew, I have lots of friends I think you'd like to meet. One of them you might have already heard of, if you're the lucky and well traveled sort. So what do you think?"

The table was apparently dumbfounded by Isabela's self-assurance. Even the noisy ones had shut up. As the accordion started to play again and there was the clatter of dancing feet from behind them, Turner said loudly.

"We are very thankful to accept your alliance, Lady Isabela!"

And in that second Jader didn't seem like such a confusing city. The people weren't too bad either.

* * *

_Authors Notes:_ Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think, especially since this is my first DA anything including something from Isabela's POV.

Before there is any confusion, I got AKBrown's permission to include a cameo of her OC Scout Turner in this chapter. He is originally part of "A Letter Home" - a wonderful Bull/Female Adaar fic. Please check her profile out to read it. Thank you, AKBrown! It was great to include him. I hope I didn't butcher his character.

Like always, I had a blast writing Calpernia and Samson dialogue. I hope you guys liked it too.

Thanks again to redpurpleblack for bouncing ideas off me. Her Sampernia one shots are 'backstory' for this. I included a certain red blindfold from her one shot "Your silver skin soothes my aching curses". Please forgive me, LOL. I couldn't miss that opportunity.

Thank you for Flaminea for offering to Beta for me. I'm sure I'll need your help next chapter.

The city of Jader was based off a town in France called Annecy.


	22. Secrets

Isabela groaned. She was tempted to cede to her exhaustion by collapsing onto her knees and crawling the last stretch of hill.

The commute had been long and awful. Thedas was terrible with its lack of rivers so they'd gone the long way and docked in a secluded part of the Korcari Wilds. The likelihood of it being ripped apart by demons was high though it would be a heroic demise compared to the belittling Jader fate of idiots throwing their food and the subsequent revenge of seagulls. Those damned idiots.

_Maybe that was the grander idea_, Isabela thought, _I could make the birds could do the dirty work and puncture out the Jaders eyeballs._

The Inquisition practically wet themselves without any help of the matching hats when they were introduced to the Champion of Kirkwall. Thankfully the majority of her crew returned to Arla to inform the Commander to unravel the welcoming mat, so there were a lesser number of crazies to deal with on the way.

"I'm telling you. Dry land is such an inconvenience." She said. "I don't know how you're still standing on it, Turner."

"Just the same as anyone else, Lady Isabela." The scout replied. For a young man he had far more endurance for this walking business than she did. Even days at sea had done little to ruin his light hearted nature. He was the type to suffer in silence. "Come. Arla is on the horizon."

Isabela's vision clouded from fatigue and the landscape became a blotchy mural of green, straw and darkness. This fortress was supposed to look impressive, not a blur. What a disappointment. The cacophony of boots of her crew was clearer. The others must be dying too.

_No, be strong Isabela,_ she encouraged, _for all the miles of creeks and corpses there can't be much more of this stupid hill. _

There couldn't be.

"It sounds like a woman's name." she said, "a sexy woman's name to be more specific."

"I can think of many sexier names." said Hawke from her left, complete with an extravagant hat.

"I'm with Bela," said Carver on her right. "I'm ready to kick up every tuft of grass. I got enough chores from mother without wrecking my boots."

Isabela smiled at him, somewhat sadly. Little Hawke had the most trouble accepting Leandra's death. He confessed he had been a dreadful son and resented not providing his gratitude more frequently.

It wasn't only the prospect of grief that made his bitterness linger these days. Carver was literally only half the man he used to be. Unable to withdraw from lyrium, he'd taken the red stuff because all the blue drink sunk to the bottom of the ocean somewhere. It was ugly stuff. It made his right arm, half of his neck and his temples glow with red spikes. At first Carver was jumpy at the prospect of anyone staring at him, but nowadays he tolerated…. Or more accurately, internalized and tormented himself with the words of others scrutiny.

They spoke little the rest of the distance. Every topic of conversation or opinion had been exhausted already.

"There it is, lords and ladies." Turner said, and the gesture wasn't necessary. The fortress was gigantic judging by the deformed blob. The longer she stood and allowed her body to recover, the prettier it became as its exquisite mysticism came into focus. Arla was more like a castle.

"I wonder which one of the Inquisition is trying to compensate?" Hawke said.

"Or competing with someone." Carver added.

"How about I politely demand them to prowl around without their pants on?" Isabela noted, "That would answer both questions."

Turner was silent, but given he was in earshot, he was probably pretending he had gone deaf.

"Yeah." Hawke said, shrugging slightly. "Maybe leave it for drinks."

"There's a tavern in Arla, right Turner?" Carver said. "If Bela isn't going to, there's always removal of clothes by pestering."

"No." Hawke said with finality. "This is why you're still alone and desperate, Carver."

"It is a _result_ of his lonely desperation." Isabela corrected. "Carver, please. Women will keep a hundred meter distance from you if you force yourself onto them."

"I didn't mean that." Carver seemed flustered. "Yeah, well…"

"Not 'Yeah, well'" Hawke said, "It's "No, NO."

"I know what 'no' means." Carver said, trying to make up for his mistake. "I was just trying to demonstrate how horrible Isabela's logic is."

Isabela extended her neck to the sky to regain her breath. When she looked back down at Carver with her posture realigned, he appeared sheepish.

"Little Hawke, I may be inappropriate, but not _that_ mental."

"How bout it Bela?" Carver said. "We go to the tavern later and you can tell everybody about all the times I saved your neck on the way here."

"And how I had to keep saving Carver's neck." Hawke pointed out.

"Shut up." Carver said. "You're no way near as good as you think you are.'

"He's had his moments." Isabela gave Hawke an affectionate squeeze on his shoulder. She pushed the side of her face into his gorgeous beard and remarked. "But really now your achievements are more a liability."

Hawke gave the shrewd grin of someone not wanting to admit they weren't the best person in the universe. Isabela smiled at little Hawke from over her partner's shoulder. All those boys needed some tender love, even her crew and they walked on land with the roar of sea in their ears and expecting the shifts of tides. Her favourite man and his brother were not as adaptable to change as she was. They were less eager to submit themselves to the splashes, the blistering winds and try to enjoy it, even if it meant vomiting on someone. Hawke had lost some of his cheery attitude he was worried so much, but it wasn't completely gone.

Carver smirked apparently pleased that residing in his brother's shadow had a use.

* * *

"I was expecting a dungeon." Isabela remarked, as they approached the longest table in Arla's unnamed tavern. It had a comforting familiarity of Fereldan inns opposed from posh countries where Jaders practically hid expensive glass statues up their asses. "That's the first surprise of the evening. The second is to see you, Knight Captain."

How it was amusing to barely recognize the Knight Captain too. In the Kirkwall days he'd appeared like a too serious, goody goody Templar with a bad haircut. Now he was a slightly less serious goody goody Important Somebody with a good haircut. It was amazing what a new outfit and hair gel did.

"It's _Commander_ now, as I'm sure you've heard." Cullen said. He wasn't smiling much.

The Ambassador named Josephine took the chair to his right.

When the scraping of chairs faded and the voice of the bard took its place Cullen surveyed Carver sadly, "I see the red lyrium has not escaped your notice, Ser Carver. I apologize. I've had to take it as well, though I hardly like it."

The Templar simply went quiet and didn't argue. "I'll get drinks. What do you want?"

"Get us a big jug of something delicious." Isabela replied.

Carver rose to his feet with unnatural delicateness. "Something delicious… I'm sure the bartender will know what that means."

With the end of that sarcastic comment, he left, deliberately avoiding looking at the few others in the tavern that were staring at his red arm.

"Thank you, Ser Carver." Cullen called, as a pathetic last attempt of encouragement. He slumped back into the seat, deciding that complimenting Little Hawke was a fruitless endeavor.

"I feel so foolish knowing you are already acquainted… perhaps in more detail than I anticipated?" Josephine said, bashful, "It is reassuring as well, of course. Are there, uh… _pleasant_ tales of your travels?"

"Sweet Maker, I hardly know where to start with questions." Cullen confessed, pushing his arms onto the table in discomfort. "I didn't expect the team we sent out to return with you… not that I am disappointed by any means. Very impressed, on the contrary… it was only unexpected." He straightened in the chair, "It is both a relief and a pleasant surprise to see you again… that there are heroes of Thedas still standing."

He finished with a solemn dark expression and decided the floor was suddenly more interesting.

"Yeah, that's why I don't call myself by the title anymore." Hawke said, affectionately squeezing Isabela's thigh from under the table.

"And Isabela…" Cullen gestured to her. "How did you find the Champion?"

Hawke chuckled. "We're boyfriend and girlfriend."

Cullen made a face that he hadn't expected this answer.

"It was easy to find him. We didn't really get separated in the first place." Isabela said proudly, "I'm captain of my own ship now… big improvement to being captain to a bunch of stupider boys."

"How wonderful!" Josephine said with a twinkle in her eye, "though I heard it is open to the elements and may procure damage?"

"We can find ourselves another boat if we really need to." Carver said, returning with a brisk step.

The others at the table raised their hands in a lazy 'welcome back' wave. He placed a jug of what scented of beer and the bartender came moments later and placed glasses in front of them. They gave their thanks and he departed.

"What happened to you after Meredith?" Hawke asked, pouring the Commander a glass.

"Erm…" Cullen began, struggling to remember, "I spent a number of months in Kirkwall as Knight Commander, though the Order was all but abandoned. I didn't feel incredibly useful or like I was doing much good. Not much different to now, anyhow - Seeker Cassandra recruited me for the Inquisition. It seemed a cause worthy of me. We were in Haven until recently when a rather unfortunate incident transpired."

Again, like when he'd mentioned 'heroes still standing' the Commander was downtrodden. He pulled the glass toward him with a nod of appreciation to Hawke and sipped at it. There was disappointment in his features, like he was drinking mineral water.

"You stopped the Green Sky Thing." Isabela said, trying to cheer him up. "That's impressive."

She pushed a beverage to Josephine, who smiled, and waited as Hawke proceeded to fill the third glass.

"The Breach?" Cullen repeated, tilting his head, "Yes, but we hardly _stopped_ it. Someone else was supposed to do that. Did you not hear about the Herald of…. Regardless, it was hardly the heroic achievement you visualize." The blond finished in a rush, looking down at the table again. What had gotten him so depressed all of a sudden? The Knight Captain had been a stolid man, but never _sad_.

"The Commander is… overworked." Josephine said tentatively, "We appreciate your compliments despite our disgruntled appearances." She looked uncomfortable, "Leliana, you might have heard of her as Sister Nightengale recruited me from Val Royeaux. It was a very joyous occasion. I wished I could be more help as well. We are lacking the influence of certain allies."

There was a pause where the remainder of the glasses were filled and they took a consoling moment to clink them together.

"One of our key goals is to recruit mages so they may cooperate and keep the Breach dormant." Josephine ventured in a more business like tone. "They are divided by those who teach others about keeping rifts dormant - a vexing enterprise as you may imagine - mages who focus on stabilizing rifts in smaller areas and ones who are positioned within reasonable distance of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Unfortunately many are not willing to cooperate or…." She looked worried. "It has been a very difficult task. I only hope it can be maintained. How have your travels been?"

"You're doing good work." Carver jumped in with support now, "Like how you did your best with Meredith before, Commander."

Cullen gulped beer, startled by the compliment. "Th-Thank you, Carver. I did not suspect anybody noticed."

"We noticed." Carver said, "Everybody bloody noticed, we just couldn't come and talk to you about it because of the vulture Knight Commander."

Cullen chuckled nostalgic, "Ah yes, that is not the first I've heard that tale."

"Our travels are an intriguing, epic adventure. Actually. I don't exaggerate much." Isabela began, though Hawke took over.

"It isn't one of _my_ more exciting adventures. I've been stuck in Crestwood like an apostate in the Gallows." Hawke said. "And trust me I knew how apostates felt out in the open. I get how they felt fighting off darkspawn for their life. That's bad enough. Squatting away in some cave was like what that Grace tried to do."

"Get on with it." Carver told his brother.

"Right." Hawke placed his drink down with a loud clink. "After the showdown of bloodshed at the Gallows I found brother and tried to figure out what was next for us. Some wanted me to be Viscount but I had enough of politics from Meredith. My uncle thought I should do something useful – wonderfully specific… as usual." He stared darkly over the glass. "We didn't need to look far. Didn't think we ever had to. Trouble usually found us, so it did again. The answer seemed to find us in the Gallows not three days later. The Templars had started using the red lyrium, some of them with no choice. A handful got paranoid and decided I was the next best target to destroy." He shuddered and went quiet.

"It was like fleeing Fereldan all over again." Carver said with a groan. "Only from red lyrium bastards and not darkspawn. I don't know which one was worse."

"We thought it was worth raising the issue with the Wardens, but…" Hawke trailed off.

"The Wardens in Kirkwall basically ditched the place, but they've probably gone mental by now." Carver remarked.

"Do you think they have been deluded by the red lyrium?" Josephine inquired.

"We thought maybe the Grey Wardens had gone to do something _about_ the red lyrium," Hawke corrected, "so I found Isabela and the three of us sailed away to investigate Weisshaupt, the Warden headquarters, to learn more about the lyrium. We spoke to Warden Commander Clarel and she told us about what was happening to them. It wasn't nice."

"It's like the whole world's gone crazy, isn't it?" Isabela suggested.

"I wish that it wasn't." Cullen said grimly. "Corypheus, a Seeker Lucius and Samson have been using the red lyrium as a weapon. It is not my goal to ever use it that way, but perhaps we will have to." He seemed annoyed at himself, "Maker preserve me - _why_ am I considering that poison has a benefit?"

"Corypheus is the world's enemy, so he is ours." Josephine explained.

"We know Corypheus." Hawke said slowly, "The Grey wardens had him imprisoned outside Kirkwall. They used the blood of my father to seal him inside, but somehow used his connection to the darkspawn to influence them, so they went after me." he sipped at his drink. "I fought him before. He was most definitely dead once the fight was over. Neither Varric or I were imagining it."

"Right now it seems like Corypheus infiltrated their heads or something." Isabela mentioned.

"Do you mean to say Corypheus has more than Venatori and Red Templar allies?" Josephine demanded, shocked.

"So the Wardens are under his influence as well?" Cullen suggested.

"We suspect it." Isabela said.

"He turned them against each other at least, just like how Meredith turned Templars and mages against each other without realizing it" Said Carver.

"I suspected it, but…" Cullen fell quiet.

"Do you think there is much time to recruit the Wardens back?" asked Josephine.

"I heard that the Grey Wardens were hearing the calling." Cullen interrupted, "We have King Alistair with us, and he is not very well because of it. He believes that the Calling has probably affected all the Wardens."

"That's what we've heard." Isabela affirmed. "Not specifically about Alistair though. Maker it would be good to see him. Where is he?"

"He has been occupied organizing a rescue mission into Redcliffe Castle." Cullen said, "Sadly a number of our allies including Varric, Cassandra, Fiona, Solas and possibly Leliana are in there."

_Not Varric_. Isabela thought dismayed. Anybody who wasn't a demon or a monster knew Varric, and therefore would feel the fissure left in his absence. He was a bit too sure of himself sometimes but he knew how to hold a conversation unlike some others Hawke kept around. Not to mention the dwarf understood what drinks were awful, what were worth the coin and would gladly invent a comically exaggerated story to get a giggle out of someone miserable. No wonder the Knight Captain was so ready to jump in a lake and drown himself.

She caught eyes with Hawke and Carver as alternative glances were cast across from either side of her and she understood they felt the same. Was the loss of Varric surprising? Not much since everyone was dying left, right and centre. That didn't stop how disappointing it was. Being accustomed to grief converted the denial to anger in an instant.

"How did that happen?" Carver demanded.

"It is a tiresome story." Josephine said wearily, "but perhaps after some drinks or a night of rest we can explain."

"Maker no,_ I_ don't want to explain." Cullen said, trying to block the conversation with his hands. Josephine gave him a wearisome look and he said, "S-Sorry Ambassador. We sent espionage two days ago to investigate the castle so we know what we're up against. From there, we can definitely decide what to do." He moved his glass without lifting it. "That said Alistair had expressed interest in speaking with you so it is only a matter of time."

Isabela linked hands with Hawke under the table and threw him a quick glance, but her partner tilted his head in confusion.

"Did the King want to talk to _me_ or is he just bonkers?" she opened her shoulders grandiosely; "I guess it's pretty apparent I've moved up in the world. I don't mean to disappoint but I think there's a queue."

From under the table she linked her left ankle with Hawke's right.

"I'm sure I can make an exception for him." Hawke said, a more affectionate comment than scrutinizing.

"He means all of us, Bela." Carver muttered, leaning in to make his voice heard.

The Ambassador gave a small smile at Carver, possibly as a sign of agreement.

"I did mean _all_ of you." Cullen noted, refilling his drink even though he'd had any of it.

"Damn." Hawke said, "Guess my name is more a liability, dearest."

Isabela grinned and was about to reply when she was interrupted.

"Moreover," Josephine continued, "what else can you tell us about Corypheus? Do you believe he is the one responsible for the Wardens hearing the calling?"

"Basically." Isabela said. "Nasty, isn't it?"

"I can believe it if he is powerful enough to still be alive." said Hawke, given up on debating the various unbelievable realities of life.

"The Calling is not real, is that what you're saying?" clarified Cullen.

"How would we know?" Carver demanded, looking annoyed.

"I think my brother means to say we don't have any idea." Hawke said.

"But it is appropriate to guess in any case." said Josephine.

"Warden Commander Clarel admitted, after a boring effort of persuasion," Isabela interrupted, "That she wants to do a ritual to stop getting any more Blights."

"Blood magic." Hawke said.

"When we tried to tell her that was crazy, the other Wardens came after us." Carver added.

"As they would. Crazy Wardens won't be any less crazy by pointing out the obvious." Isabela gave an appreciative smile. "So as the Maker would have it, in the process of running away we heard about the Inquisition in Crestwood, and I set out to find you. It took bloody ages, mind you."

"Are there any plans of where the Warden Commander will perform the ritual?" Cullen asked.

"It's in the region of the Western Approach." Hawke said. "From what we tried to figure out afterwards it's some sort of Tevinter ritual tower."

"Creepy and stupid, more like." Carver said, "Like it couldn't get any worse."

"Do you know when the ritual is being performed?" Josephine inquired.

"Way too soon. Half a week from now, unless it's been changed," Isabela said, "But I lost enough of my crew from the Grey Wardens and we didn't want to do it the stupid way. If you help us pack, Commander, so we can get lots of rest, we might be able to head out with a team in the morning."

"Do you truly want to do this on your own? And in the morning… madness," Cullen was flabbergasted by the suggestion. "I mean, you just got here."

"As much as I adore misadventures, recklessness and escapades I'm not the biggest fan of dying." Isabela said. "I'd rather not have a repeat of being swept up in the smelly Docks of a corrupt city even if it means finding another boyfriend."

"Hey now." Hawke countered with a playful grin.

"It is a shame you cannot wait and see how our rescue mission for Redcliffe castle goes." Cullen said, "We could use your help if you're interested."

"The Western Approach is related to Corypheus." Hawke said, "So I won't be abandoning that mission. I feel responsible to make it right."

"And I won't leave my man." Isabela said, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. "He needs someone to squash his ego."

"I need to stop Isabela from getting so distracted by my brother someone attacks her." Carver said with a small smile.

"Very well." Josephine seemed to be thinking quickly, "I do not want either of you to be packing or preparing anything. Cullen and myself will manage it. I will inform Alistair of the new information and plan. It is possible he would like to accompany you, and while I do not think it wise for him to do so I doubt he will listen to reason. It might be possible still for him to rally some of the Wardens. Perhaps there will be some benefit to his rashness."

"The world truly is mad." Cullen said wearily. "and no I don't think Alistair will turn away the Western Approach, even though he should."

They were grateful for the opportunity to rest. At that moment they decided on meals to eat. Commander and Josephine paid for it. The pies were decent. Cullen reluctantly left to start preparing for the Western Approach and Alistair came back to replace him, excited, witty and more lively than any of them. That man managed to make himself look messier than before. Life was strange that way sometimes. It was bizarre that Alistair said no one had to pack anything and that it was all taken care of. It was strange to not have to do everything by oneself, to not have to take on that responsibility. It was disillusioning to reminisce on adventures in the Pearl, the Blooming Rose and other such places like no one was risking their lives tomorrow… for the uncountable time.

* * *

It was nice to have a bed to sleep in and not a sleeping bag or quarters in a boat. When Hawke went to clarify some final arrangements with Cullen someone else pushed open the door.

"'Bela?" Carver said. He appeared uneasy, though not frustrated, ever hesitating, his gaze uneven, questioning if it was acceptable to come inside.

Isabela nodded that it was. She crossed her legs from on the bed to get more relaxed. They had a single candle lit on the mantelpiece, but it was enough. Everything could be seen by a dim aura of yellow.

Even the new pair of night clothes couldn't make Hawke's brother comforting. The red lyrium pieces made him look ill and broken, in comparison to terrifying. It was a different sort of uncomfortable.

He looked terrible these days, and that was saying something. His usual air of asshole ruined a lot of his good looks. Now the red lyrium had wrecked him too.

Carver shut the door behind him. The room was silent. This was an eerie change to the gusts of wind and howls of wolves that used to come from outside Crestwood, or even the constant gushes and crashes of the ocean.

"I don't know what my duty will be from now on," he began slowly, "but in case something goes wrong at the Western approach, and while I'm finally away from my brother, I wanted to let you know something."

"What is it?" Isabela asked. Was it about the rude stories she'd told to Alistair? How Carver wanted to complain about Hawke because he'd done something cruel?

Carver shuffled his feet. The alcohol hadn't done much to him except make him less angry, funnily enough. Isabela convinced herself he was going to say something remorseful about his mother when something completely unrelated fell from his mouth.

"I've been keeping a secret from you."

"A secret?" It was almost a challenge, "What variety?"

"That time we played Truth or Dare back at my uncle's place years ago, when you helped me decide to become a Templar." Carver said, and Isabela knew what he was talking about. "I know you don't like getting feelings mixed up into everything. I don't either, but it's mostly to stop myself getting hurt. But I'm hurt anyway because I have this stupid feeling that something bad is going to happen at the Western Approach… and by the fact my brother beat me again."

"I am not sure what you're referring to." Isabela said, slowly.

"That I got my feelings mixed up." Carver said, "That I found that I sort of liked you against my will, and in case something happens to either of us I didn't want to die without you knowing. I enjoyed spending time with you while brother was in the Deep Roads, even though you're not the kind of company I'd keep if I had any other choice. That's the kind of company you are, an unexpected… luxury."

The speech finished abruptly, as though the Templar had realized what he'd said…. Or that he was talking at all about something emotive.

Isabela wasn't any more than startled. She was used to drunks confessing their love for her, or ones who knew her longer than a few hours, but this was different. Carver was a friend. He was an appreciated ally. The answer would break him or destroy him.

But she couldn't do that. Despite the seriousness of the confession the Rivain couldn't help but use humour to lighten it. Everything was depressing enough with the Green Sky Thing over their heads.

"That's appropriately noble of you." Isabela said. She had to grin. She couldn't be upsetting. "The Gallows really rubbed off on you."

She was acutely aware of how her night clothes framed her cleavage, but was intrigued that little Hawke avoided his eyes, yet again. He always did, because he was a bit silly with girls, a bit stupid about social situations. On the night of truth and dare she had shown him what lay underneath, and he had acted like he didn't care. It was just a game, she said. This isn't against the rules, he'd replied.

Maybe, despite the extra experience with that night and in the Rose, he still didn't.

This didn't align with her perceptions of men or _people_ in general.

"Shut you." Carver snarled, turning properly to face her. "You don't know what it's like to have a sibling steal away a clever woman."

"Sadly no." Isabela said. _if I had any siblings. _

The man still looked condemning.

Fine. She had to do the proper explanation the adult way. "I'm sorry about all of it. I didn't think you were the type to have feelings."

"I didn't think you were like that either." Carver said. "It's why I didn't tell you for so long."

They both knew. It was Garret Hawke that had changed this perception.

"A smart decision, all things considered." Isabela said.

It _had_ been at the time. She told Carver they'd be no feelings, just as she'd explained to Faith, the whore that they had both been acquainted with. It was all games, sexualized friendships and gratification. The risks were smaller and the gains were greater.

Nobody got close to pirate Isabela and received a positive outcome. She didn't let them get close. Even if they did, she'd deny every feeling and impulse. Hardly anyone bothered to get too close, not with her boundaries… but Hawke had been gentle and patient enough to slowly change her mind.

It was a difficult process at best. It still felt like a risk. Maybe it always would.

Isabela wholeheartedly agreed with the statement still. Her beliefs that backed her choices had not changed too much. They were still in the process of being reworked through trust and the decency of others, through love. She knew there had been something missing.

"But you know if you'd persisted I might have fallen for you too." she ventured, thoughtful. "Your brother got through to me somehow, so obviously I made a mistake somewhere along my mischievous travels."

Carver frowned. Regardless of the section of his body that was no longer his own, he still had his feelings, and his eyes held disappointment. His voice was even softer.

"Bela, don't tell me that."

"That doesn't make it better?"

"Now I'm going to be beating _myself_ up as well as wishing I could stab my brother in the face." Carver nearly punched the air in resentment.

"Maybe a duel is what could solve the rivalry here." Isabela suggested.

"Don't joke about that, Bela." Carver said, storming half way across the room and backtracking. "And I know Garret would be angry if I did anything with you. It doesn't matter how many nice layers you put on top of it like none of it means anything."

"He is a very good boy." Isabela said, ignoring the second half of the comment. "And so are you."

There was a goading pause. She stared at him, as intently as he did her, and there were no answers, only screams to pray for feelings to not exist. They always did, and one could only run away for so long before it came to outpour misery.

Was her way of life truly without risks when those just-for-fun people continued to follow her around? She hadn't been able to predict what would happen at the Gallows. The Order was meant to be for life.

Everyone was finding that was not the case. There was no stability, only change.

"How about one round of truth or dare?" she said, hopefully, "before you-know-who comes back."

Carver paused, apparently not thinking this was a bad idea. "I pick dare."

"There's a challenge." Isabela said. "I dare you to not be an idiot, with me or… with anything really."

The end of the sentence was a tad awkward. Carver didn't mind. He grinned. It looked almost handsome.

Carver chuckled. "I can do that. I think I'm allowed to say I've done impressive work with that so far."

"True, and… _truth_." Isabela said. "What made you stop wanting to get mixed up in feelings? I mean you know how long my story is, but I am intrigued as to why you did it."

She knew she'd cheated and skipped his turn, but she didn't want to talk about herself. She didn't want her own feelings investigated like she was smuggling them. She did enough of that for work as it was.

Carver, thankfully, was used to her deceit in games.

The Templar smiled ruefully. "As soon as I noticed my brother had his eyes on you. I've never been able to beat him at anything."

He shut off his feelings because of being in his brother's shadow. Oh, Maker. What a pity.

That wouldn't do.

"You're doing the Templar thing pretty well." Isabela said.

"Bela, stop it." Carver sounded annoyed again, "I'm not trying to fish for attention or anything for once. I just wanted you to know how I felt… okay, maybe it was stupid, and…" he looked solemn and remorseful again, "Don't worry, you won't need to hear it from me again."

He pivoted on his heel, as if wanting to leave. Then he froze.

If Isabela wasn't in a relationship her usual protocol was to offer a night of fun with the greater goal of distracting a person from their feelings… but she couldn't do that anymore without asking Hawke first… oh, responsibility! The likelihood of a 'no' answer was almost definite. Such agony!

This is why she hated feelings. There were only particular means to fix them, and she often lacked the tools, despite having a heart large enough to care.

She couldn't joke anymore. She had to do the grown up thing.

Isabela opened her arms. Carver didn't move. What an uncouth fool.

She stood to her feet and took a steady step forward, " Carver…" she intoned sweetly, like urging a kitten to drink milk.

The man didn't move. He was no better than an effigy of Andraste, somewhat nice to look at and think about but couldn't do anything, his gaze and stance stalwart. What a resplendent little Hawke. She exhaled slowly.

"You're literally shining," she remarked, "one half of you is anyway. It's an appealing colour. Carnelian. It would look expensive on wristlets and charms, earn a hefty sum of coin. Girls _love_ shiny things. You can't stand there and grouch about it forever."

That didn't help either.

One of Carver's eyes darted to hers. It told her, _Yes, I can._

"Fine. I can see your priorities need some rethinking. I for one find your… it would reflect off your teeth like fire if you smiled. That's exciting._ I_ think it is." She stepped forward again, but this time she didn't make a full step. She was inches away from leaning into her friend. "I kind of want to know what it feels like against me."

She might have smiled if it was any other circumstance, but now she was merely stating how she felt. It was a feeling that didn't feel so wrong to express, for it was emotive and focused on a physical want. She could conceal the feelings with ease and justify them away, to make them invisible to the outside world, but it was becoming harder to lock the cabinet door, for the keys were in sight.

It was Hawke's fault… but she wasn't sure if it was a _mistake_. Not anymore. Not when she had living proof there were companions on her journey that weren't betraying morons.

There was a desire for intimacy as much as a need for ameliorating his woe. Isabela required an anodyne, and she couldn't figure out who deserved it the most.

Maybe they all craved it with the same intensity, her crew, her friends, her special man, the Inquisition… and her man's lovelorn little brother.

Carver half rolled his eyes. They swivelled to reach the ceiling then fell back down. He'd never approved of her sex insinuations. But he was looking at her now. The pupils hadn't made a full circle. The frown wasn't quite a glower. He doubted that feelings were burdens too. He might have sensed that she wasn't talking about being felt up.

Isabela hoped that he could see it so she wouldn't have to explain any more. "Don't strangle me or we will have a bigger problem."

It was awkward. Carver had been easier to wrap her arms around before. Now there were jagged spikes to snake through and make sure her arm didn't move an inch. Those fingers gently touched his shoulder blade. The palm of her other hand painstakingly reached all the way across to make up for the space that was untouched.

It might not have done much, but it was better than nothing.

Isabela held Carver for the first time since they'd played the adult version of Truth or Dare. It had been ages ago, eight years maybe. While it was unusual it wasn't the grip of a stranger. The more seconds passed the red side turned from cool to hot and the inside of her arm sweltered with its glow. If he was feeling equally hot the Templar made no show of it.

Carver awkwardly held onto the back of her head with the hand that was still normal. He gave up being the stubborn grumpy boy. There was mild chatter from outside the door from other Inquisition members, people they didn't know, stories that meant nothing. Not a sentence of coherency was absorbed.

"Even now you're being too nice, Bela." He gave a shrewd chuckle, "Brother's probably going to kick me tomorrow. He'll find out somehow you hugged me, just you wait.'

"He doesn't know what we did when he was in the Deep Roads." Isabela pointed out, "so I don't think I'd slip about a hug too easily!'

They broke apart. The atmosphere slightly thinned as it did, or perhaps that was the temperature of her arm resuming its natural state.

"Sides, I know where your mouth and body has been." Carver said, brushing some dust from his shoulder, "So I wouldn't want to do anything with you anyway."

"I bet I could change your mind." Isabela taunted.

"Don't try." Carver said, like he'd known she was going to say that.

Yes, she'd be a good girl.

"I won't." Isabela said. She couldn't leave it like this. "Thanks for letting me know, though."

The younger brother smiled in that way he did when he wasn't confident enough to express his opinion. She thought it said 'thanks for the hug', if she was lucky.

He head toward the door and poked it open to check Hawke wasn't coming back. His expression was stout and focused. No smile. No nothing, his usual taciturn quietness since the red lyrium had taken over his body.

"It's always nice when someone doesn't merely follow me around for my ass." Isabela said finally.

Carver gave a final hint of a smile, one of the most genuine ones she'd seen. It was gentle and understanding. Little Hawke only showed those qualities in the rarest of circumstances.

"I never did." He pressed open the door and paced away, "Goodnight, Bela. See you in the morning."

_The morning… _

Isabela thought on the two words as she tucked herself into bed.

"Oh, agony." She sighed.

* * *

_Authors Notes:_ By popular request (redpurpleblack and GRBrown), this chapter is from Isabela's POV! I struggled a bit putting this together which is why it took so long to post, but I hope the result is enjoyable.

A million thanks to Flaminea for being a beta for this chapter and throwing ideas around with me. It was super helpful!

The last part of this chapter was a continuation of a one shot I wrote called "Rose Girls Cry".

The last line is a reference to the song 'Agony' from Into the Woods... because I just couldn't resist. If no one has seen the Dragon Age parody for that song on Youtube, I recommend it!


	23. Darkness

_The castle is like the home but it is not one. It used to be safer, it used to be grander. _

Cole felt uncomfortable approaching the King's stronghold regardless of the irrationality. There was no reason to be fearful. The ones who had come with him were not far. They camped in a safe place, away from the demons and chaos of Redcliffe village. The people might be helped after, they assured him.

The moon gleamed silver from the red crystals of the Red Templars like lacquer. It looked very frightening, even alarming. The crimson shell was something unnatural that was not supposed to be, like Dragons that could speak and children that knew how to kill without being taught.

It made no difference they couldn't see him. Cole felt the wickedness inside their hearts. That is what made him shudder. Some of them didn't want to destroy, but many were so angry they would murder by accident. Hurting by not meaning to was such a doleful crime.

He walked around the perimeter first. There was a large courtyard and pathways that lead into the Castle, some of them secret. Cole didn't listen to the voices, but he counted thirty of them. There were eighteen Red Templars and twelve Venatori.

_Good_, he reminded himself, _remember the numbers. It is very important to remember the numbers. _

The ghost wandered circumspect back to the entrance. Two men in sweeping robes and pointed masks were in front of the door, discussing if demons had a use in composting. Was it a good idea to gather them in a ditch in the ground and make it a pyre, or would the fumes be noisome?

Cole waited. They were very close together.

He waited some more. They remained too near.

The ghost inhaled deeply and surreptitiously glided past the guards through the gap where their elbows were. He did so without so much of a flinch, though once he crossed them they knew something had been there.

"Did you nudge me?" grumbled one of the Venatori.

"What?" came another, "No."

"I swear something brushed my arm."

"Must be the weather."

There was a pause.

"Fucking weather."

_Yes, the sky is very angry,_ Cole recalled. Glancing back, he squinted at the greyish hue in the air. Even at night the moon made it resplendent like clouds after a storm. There was only a rainbow missing.

The ghost looked around. He needed a distraction to dissuade the guards from following him. So he picked up a jagged piece of brick from meters away and threw it toward the Courtyard. It clattered.

"What the?" said the Left mage.

"Might be nothing." said the Right one.

"I'll have a quick look."

The mage on the left marched away. His boots were loud enough that Cole stepped one half of his torso through the door. There was no reason they'd hear, but he was worried. They were powerful. They knew a lot about magic.

"If there's nothing you owe me a drink!"

"If it's something I'll pluck the hair from your nostrils."

The young man heard one last yelp that was muffled as he crossed the border.

"That's just cruel!"

* * *

Cole covered his mouth to stop himself from yelping. He nearly walked into someone upon entering the castle. It was a lady, maybe a servant. She looked sad and had tankards of hot spiced wine on a tray.

The ghost promptly avoided the servant girl and tried to orientate himself to his surroundings.

The walls were stone and this passageway was diminutive. The rugs were the only details with colour, besides two small torches near the far door, like outside. There were wooden patterns of snakes on the walls. A Venatori and a Red Templar stood either side of the archway.

"She reminds me of my daughter." A female Red Templar mused, as the door Cole had just walked through opened and closed behind him. He felt his insides squirm upon sensing this woman's essence, "Sweet darling."

"She is more appropriately suited to a library." The Venatori remarked, thoughtful.

As Cole crossed the next smaller room he heard the last of their conversation echo.

"I wonder if she has family. Is it silly to ask?"

"You can wonder, think and ask about whatever you like." the Red Templar said.

* * *

The next room was a lot bigger. Longer. It had two long tables with 18 chairs at each and a lit fireplace at the back. It was bright in here too, far brighter than Arla. It was very busy. Six guards were positioned around the room. Three were reading books. One was observing a map. Half of the seats at the tables were occupied with merry eating, but there was little conversation. They weren't allowed to talk very loud.

Cole saw their faces, some of them were normal and kind, a few beautiful, others disfigured, maybe fathers or brothers or sisters, a number harsh and apathetic. These were people, but they were not like any Cole had ever met.

The noise was different. It was there and not there at the same time, like behind bars, locked away in an instrument. Usually the vibrations of others feelings were close. Like the force of waves on a shore through the density and pressure he could tell if it was near or far.

Cole concentrated. Not every person had this music. The Red Templar's essences were fainter, like its source was misplaced, as tender as melting snow. The Venatori had strong but uneven waves like the rippling of the earth. Like passing between the eye of a storm and its torrent, he perceived the subtle differences as he crossed the room on his arms and fingers. The melodies were distorted and chaotic, but again, a jumble with so many. Why was it like this in most of the red ones but not the mages? The Commander was somewhere in the middle, but heavy in his heart and shoulders from the stress.

_No. I have to help. I came here to help_, he reminded himself. He had to concentrate.

Where was he going? He needed to remember the numbers. So far he had thirty four.

It was hard with all the noise, but he started to count.

Five, ten, eighteen. He tried not to walk through people. Cole approached the fire. Sometimes it was impossible to avoid and he crossed the boundaries. The mages and Templars started to speak.

"Has the book gotten any better?"

"I wish I could say yes. _Of Fereldan Social Contract_ was far better, but I gave it to the General."

"Look what you did." One Red Templar who was eating stew said, "You're never going to get it back now."

"Someone please burn all the Chants out at the Western Approach." Said a woman who everyone understood was a man.

"Didn't you hand them over?"

"General said not to."

"Why would he?"

"Said it was bribery…"

"For what?"

_No, stop listening. _

Cole pulled away from their chatter, even as the undertones of their displeasure lingered. He had to count everybody in the room again before continuing.

He was looking for the ones that were hurt and hidden away. He vaguely wandered the halls, remembering to count.

Twenty seven, thirty six…

It was loud here, but the pain was stronger in certain places like spilled blood.

Cole had to recount a few times. He didn't like doing that, but there was no choice. It was necessary. He had to remember the numbers.

* * *

The ghost poked his head through doors. There were sometimes supplies in them. A few had important people. He didn't know their names, but he sensed they knew how to control. They usually stayed by themselves and weren't guarding anything. Their uniforms were different and the others approached them.

Like the man who was writing a letter with more force than needed. Family he cared about was dying. He was very sad.

Forty eight.

Like the woman with a gap in her teeth, she had larger gaps in her heart, but she knew they were there. She knew how to feel them. The vibrations were not clouded or distorted, they simply rang with a clear chime. Maybe she was not much older than Cole, it was hard to tell.

Those who crossed her in the hall called her Calpernia.

"I ask that you depart so I may complete my duties." She said calmly, to a woman with one of those pointed masks.

"Champion, Florianne de Chalon has sent more details about Halamshiral. The reply was recommended with haste, madam."

The blonde marched with purpose.

"I request that you hold onto it, Venatori Stefania, until the morrow where I am clearer in thinking."

"Uh, yes, Champion."

Fifty.

* * *

Cole traveled further than he should. He went back and forth, as he tried to remember where he had come from and what doors he had forgotten to go through. Eventually he stepped through a dark corridor, gloomier than the rest. The air was wet and there were no torches, pure darkness except for the red crystals glow.

Inside the third door a lady was curled up on the floor. There was a small torch in the corner, but the person was cloaked in shadow, chained at her ankles to an iron ring on the wall.

She seemed to be sleeping. Her breathing wasn't normal. There was so much hurt inside of her. Her spirit didn't create sound. The vibration was weak, blocked by thick muggy clouds of her despair like smoke. It made her even more difficult to see. Only those in the darkest and lifeless of blood had the smog. She must be so close to dying but she was being strong.

She wasn't dressed like the Red Templars or Venatori. She had a dress, expensive, but it was dirty and had not been washed for a long time, he guessed. Her hair was matted and covering her porcelain skin like she was hiding on purpose. Maybe it was straw coloured or bronze.

Cole walked around so he was positioned a few feet from her head.

This room was very small. There were iron rings on the walls for three others but it was empty.

He wasn't sure if this person was going to cooperate with him, but Cole was willing to try. He had to. Her heart was weak.

"I am a friend, here to help…" he halted, wondering if she heard or not. She was so near he could hold her. "Yes, I am k-kind. I don't want to hurt you like the others."

Met with silence, he stepped closer, "Can you talk? You must talk quietly so they can't hear, but loud enough so I can."

The woman groaned. As she moved the torch illuminated the muck and grime of her blonde hair and gown.

"H-Hello," Cole repeated again. He tapped her shoulder, preparing himself to cover her mouth if she screamed. He made himself visible. "I am a friend, nice lady."

All of a sudden, the woman opened her eyes and jumped. "You disturb, but… you are… there is a future ahead for you." As she spoke, her pupils darted, not knowing where to stay. She tried to lift herself. "There is a… I believe it. Who are you?"

"Quiet." He reminded her, "My name is Cole. I am a Ghost of the White Spire. Who are you?"

"You are not accustomed to Fereldan, I see. I am…." She took a wheezing breath, "Am I constructing fantasies…Anora Therin. I wager that means little to you. Queen of Fereldan. King Alistair is my betrothed. Is it wiser to say is or was? What… how…"

She was at a loss of words, trembling and pallor. Cole understood why. It was the fog. Those who had it did not know how to place their words. She was one of the important people, maybe the Inquisition were close to her.

"You've been in this dark with the hurt and torture." He placed a hand to her face, "The man you love is safe with the Inquisition. He is with friends."

This was a Queen but she was in worse health than the servant girl. Her illness was a knife that burrowed deep into the heart of this place.

"Alistair?" Anora's lip trembled and she tried to move her head. She seemed confused, "Is he? It is good he is well. Many words of gratitude, ghost. My apologies but I assumed you had strong reason to search for me," she gulped to stop the dryness of her mouth, "Is that accurate?"

"My friends want to come save you." Cole said, "But there are lots of them in here and not many of us."

Anora pulled at her bindings but didn't get very far. "That is no small feat. It is a task that should be undertaken by only the strongest men." Her chin lolled for a moment. "Is there word from Teagan? I recall your Ambassador Montilyet making contact with him… some time ago. Did my betrothed find freedom beneath the shield of his troops?"

"He said villagers." Cole recollected, "But I am not sure. There was a lot of hurt clouding him. There might have been Teagan too, but where no one could see."

Anora groaned and stayed still for a while. She didn't understand the words completely, but she knew enough to dislike them. "What of Arl Eamon? Is he with the Inquisition?"

"I don't know but I can discover the truth." Cole said, "We want to know how to save you, to stop the hurting." He reached out to her in heart and mind like he had with many others, "Tell me what you know."

"Teagan is the only alliance I can offer." Anora said. She flinched as she tried to move one of her legs. "The words of the people are not always true. I may be a woman of independence and defiance as my father used to take pride in, but I am first and foremost the Fereldan representative in politics. I am not what is needed in war." She looked desperate and remorseful, "I beg you only seek to reclaim my life if it is safe to do so. Do not put others at risk for my wellbeing. A life is lesser now to those who know to survive swords play. "

She was a woman destroyed, a Queen discouraged to nothing. The ghost wanted to encourage her to be strong.

"You are big and important. The King wants you to come back." Cole said. He brushed a hand to her face, like he thought the King might if he was here, "He misses you."

"His feelings…" Anora gave a shrewd grin, "I have taught my husband well over these many years. He is a fool as Cailan was. How they are similar, jesters in nature, but Alistair killed my father. There was no reason for me to love him, none at all. It was only a match out of convenience. But I learned to understand how my father hurt him, as he learned to understand how he hurt me. Now, he is free. There is nothing he cannot do without me. He knows what I know. He can carry on the legacy of my name with his other consort."

Cole wasn't sure exactly what she meant, but he knew she wouldn't be saying this if she was well fed and cleaned. He wasn't helping yet and that was sad.

"I will help you." Cole said, "Tell me how. I will do it."

Anora started to sob. They were tears of being absolutely drained of life rather than sadness. For she was so tired, she did not lift her hands to wipe them. "There is nothing in the world for me, humble ghost. There is not an ounce of mercy or hope." She tried to speak clearer, "I have no doubt word has spread of my inadequacy, for Eamon wrote of it and left it in the Castle. The guards tease me for it; they only remind me of what I know to be undisputable failure."

"You have not failed." Cole whispered, trying to make the woman settle. He didn't know what experience she was referring to, but he knew without the fog she would be strong. The Queen had not been a failure, not to her people or those who really cared for her.

She merely quaked on the ground.

"I could not bear a child with Cailan." Anora said, slowly. "There was no heir to the throne, despite careful deliberation and well intention. We did not speak of it to anybody. He did not speak ill of me, nor I him. We were deeply afraid it was me who was barren, but he was also fearful that he was." Cole rest a hand on the woman's face as her body moved regardless of her own commands, "Trickery, I thought, a stroke of poor luck. When Alistair and I developed the same concern, it became clear it was I who was infertile." Her words were nearly incomprehensible, "How I wept when no one could see me. My body is so wasteful. It betrayed me. I am traitor to the throne, my country and my family. My life has been built to reside here when it cannot stand proud and do its duty." She took four deep breaths. " That is why, ghost, I do not want to be saved unless there is guarantee of reclaiming Redcliffe or safety for the Inquisition." She covered her face, "Even if the task succeeds I doubt I will be able to stay out of sight for long. I told Alistair he ought to allow his consort to bear his child in secret, and it could be ours, even hers. It is good. She can survive in this world. I can't.'

"What should I do?" Cole repeated. He understood that having children was very important to the Queen, because she wanted to please others, and it was painful that her body was not working the way it was supposed to, but he was at a loss of how to help. He was determined to discover the next step.

"What am I to do? Only tell Alistair that I care for him deeply and he should focus on retrieving the others of your Inquisition. If need be, I can sacrifice myself for the cause. I can behave as a distraction to free yours and his allies. Fereldan can thrive without me. They only need a ruler. It does not have to be me, and while I so desired to bear his child he knows my body does not allow it." Anora's eyes were shining with regret, but a newly found resolve, "Tell him I'm sorry for that. If I am no longer here he can find a new future. He can revert this world back to what it was. My presence will only pull him to death."

Cole felt very sad to hear that. This woman wanted to help more than her desire to be alive.

Anora struggled. Seeing the hurt in her eyes he didn't back away. The woman's eyes glared with intensity, and she grabbed at what she could reach of Cole, "He will not die, do you understand? Will you promise me that the royal bloodline will not dissipate? I will perish if I must. Inform him that I refuse to leave here if it jeopardizes the world's chance for survival. I will not be so foolish and selfish." Cole didn't answer, taken aback and uncertain, though she repeated, "Promise me, kind, thoughtful ghost. Promise me King Alistair, my dear husband, will be protected… that he will not be needlessly sent to his death under any circumstances?"

"Promises can break." Cole said, "But I will keep it strong, fair Queen. I will tell the King what you wish him to know."

Anora barely managed a smile, "Thank you, ghost. I wish you could remain, but I know you cannot." More tears fell from her eyes, "your promise brings me peace, Cole. I shall remain hardy, but you must ensure that you tell me the plan before it comes to fruition. My mind is not coherent enough for improvisation"

Cole gave Anora a hug. He felt how thin and weak she was, how she tried to return it with the same kindness, but it was lacking. "Stay safe, fair Queen. You are very kind and your husband loves you." He turned himself invisible again and departed. "You reigned well."

There was something he could and that was reassuring.

* * *

Cole counted up to fifty five before entering a room not far from where Anora was. This space was bigger but also empty. The Spymaster Nightengale was there. Reassured he could still recognize her in the dark, he glided toward her. Similar to the Queen, she was bound to the floor. There was no fog around her like there had been Anora. Instead her vibrations were uneven like the Venatori, but drifting away like the Red Templars. Her strength remained, however warped.

He went as close to Leliana as he could, kneeled to the ground and whispered in her ear.

"Sister Nightengale," he said, "I am Cole. I am not sure if you remember me. I am a ghost, but here to help."

Leliana blinked a few times as though trying to rid herself of bright light. "What can you tell me?"

"Your friends are safe for now." Cole said, "Some are safer than others. They want to set you free."

"I am not sure how successful they will be." Her eyes gleamed of red like the crystals. She paused a moment, "How are our forces?"

"Small." Cole said.

"Ask Josie to contact Harper at _La Fourchette Blanche_, a café in Val Royeaux. She's one of my agents." Leliana said, "She will give contacts to the others if Josie explains what has happened. Tell her to mention the verse from the song of the Raven. It is so my agents know it is a message from me, 'I fainted as if I were dying and I fell as a dead body falls"

Cole repeated it a few times to check he'd heard right.

"Thank you."

"Go find the others." Leliana urged him. "The prisons are downstairs. It is foolish to loiter, even if you are a ghost."

* * *

Cole walked to the end of the corridor and down the stairs. As he approached, he reminded himself to keep walking. The auras of the people could not physically hurt him, but it felt like it could for the strength of the grief and their horrors. There was lots of black smoke of the dying and he had to squint to see.

He kept forgetting what he was doing. To distract himself, he recalled what Commander Cullen said about what the prisoners looked like.

He found the Seeker Cassandra first, evident by her stability and Navarra accent. She told him that the dungeons were used to mine lyrium, and that she'd overheard where the Red Lyrium was being shipped in other places.

"May the Maker watch and guide you." She finished, when the ghost recounted the plan. As he searched the other faces, he tried to push away the scrambled thoughts brought on by the red crystals and how it was infecting the prison's inhabitants.

* * *

He had to wait until some guards passed before speaking to the elf mage. He was cross legged in the cell and very quiet and still. His aura was the most free. Once Cole was identified, the message was kept hushed and brief.

"There is an orb that I must retrieve from Corypheus." Solas hissed. His eyes were red but he kept them closed, pretending nothing unusual had occurred. "Tell your forces and rally them. I have seen it… what your Inquisition has been doing, and all your memories in the Fade. It is important that I am freed first. I can protect the others, however it is unlikely everyone will be released from the clutches of this prison."

Did the man have hurt? Yes, but was it in grasp to be taken away? Was it urgent?  
Cole decided no from the power he felt resonating from the mage.

"I will tell the others."

* * *

Cole found the dwarf, Varric, surrounded by many. They were in too much chaos to converse. A young boy was whimpering on the ground from the cell opposite. Red lyrium was raised out of his back and had torn his clothes. He was almost not visible from the darkness and the heaviness. His spirit had forgotten how to sing.

"I don't want to do this anymore!" he moaned "It is too much."

"No one wants to be here," said a man who kept his face hidden. He kept to himself the most out of everyone, "You'd be doing us all a favour if you follow your own advice. I can't stand the noise."

Varric cringed as the boy's scream shrieked through the corridor. He was tired and dirty like all the others, but his vibrations were consistent.

Another young girl met Varric's scrutiny with curious eyes. She looked like a demon with the red wafting around her body and was scratching the back of her knees. Cole gathered from the streams of colour that were drifting between Varric and the girl that they were very close. Friends, yes, but also shelter for survival. They kept no secrets from each other. It was keeping them strong. They needed to stay together.

Crack.

The boy was eating red lyrium.

A Dalish elf girl hesitated. She was very frightened.

"Y-You… ought to be more careful. There is devilish magic within those stones."

The boy ignored her. The elf started muttering to herself.

"Cade, stop it!" Varric's friend yelled. "You'll kill yourself if you're not careful. We agreed to keep fighting!"

"Let it go, Redcliffe." Varric said. "I mean, Alex. Shit, sorry."

_He is hurting, but he is the strong in his mind_. Cole remarked. Those two friends liked the hold each other. Maybe their shelter was also part of their hurt. What from?

There was no chance to talk to them without being noticed. He counted the number of guards and prisoners and kept walking.

* * *

"Mage lady.' Cole said a little later, "I am here to help."

This was the last one. The Enchanter appeared very ill and tired, much like Anora, but there was a flash of life in her eyes. The ones in the other cells near her were sleeping restlessly.

She seemed relieved to see him, but also troubled. Like the others, her eyes gleamed of red, but not of maliciousness.

"Dear boy. You may call me Fiona." She sat up against the wall and her eyelids drooped, "What brings you here?"

He told her of the plan, in as little words as he could.

"Like many I am sure, I do not know the likelihood of your plans success, but I will hope with the same intensity." Fiona remarked. Her gaze was distant, as though not paying attention to him. "Tell me, how is King Alistair?"

"Safe." Cole said. "For now."

It seemed lots of people here wanted to talk about the King. Why was that?

Fiona's features softened, even as her posture resumed propriety. Her gaze was on the wall, and Cole took in how bony she was.

"If you may, please convey I am sorry for what I did here in this Castle. I trusted when perhaps it was foolish to do so, but I saw it as necessary for my people." She rest silently for a few moments. "It is my fault all of this happened. I feel severe guilt about it. It is more destructive than any nightmare or the Calling. Also…"

She slumped onto the ground, lost in thought.

The ghost moved closer to her so she could still speak.

"Yes?"

"If you deem it appropriate considering the circumstances," the volume of her words fluctuated, but the tone was certain, "inform Alistair that his mother sends him her well wishes."

This was important. Cole knew it instinctively, as it was making Fiona hurt lots. He wondered about Alistair. What did he want? Most wanted to understand where they had come from, even if the results might not be pleasant.

"Do you know his mother?" he probed, "What if he wants to know?"

"I do know his mother." Fiona said carefully, "but it does not matter now. Tell him that much… no." she changed her mind mid-sentence, "If I do not make it out of here alive, or even if I do… suppose again, only under the most sensitive of circumstances you may…" she paused again, "tell him that I am his mother, but do take care in its implementation. It is not a task I believe should be undertaken lightly."

Cole nodded in acceptance and agreement of this task. As Fiona was speaking, her hurt was changing. It was moving, and maybe it would be less soon.

She sighed in nadir. "I have no doubt… that he must be experiencing grave turmoil about… his home being taken under siege by hand of my foolishness. Given his anger I do not believe he will desire to know the truth, but there. It is not a secret anymore." She almost fell asleep, but coughed instead, "You may tell others if they understand the sensitivity of the situation, but it must not lead back to him unnecessarily. I have caused him enough grief, even if it was unintentional. Perhaps I should have mentioned this years ago." Her eyes finally met his, and within them lay sorrow. "It is a regret I will bring to the Maker upon my passing, but I will remain as strong willed as I am required."

She looked like she would be crying if she was not made weak by the red lyrium. He felt her anguish and it was as terrible, or worse, than Queen Anora. He didn't like thinking about comparing two people's hurt, but it was so powerful down in this dungeon.

Cole leaned forward to give Fiona a hug, the same as he had to many others. "I will remember, Grand Enchanter. Your secret will not be lost. I hope I can help some more."

She accepted the kindness gratefully, but exhausted. Her arms were stronger than the Queens.

Fiona smiled meekly, "You have done plenty for me already. It is pleasant to tell another person. I had forgotten, or perhaps, neglected to notice, how much it was weighing on my mind. I am getting old, but I will not… grow feeble."

They both knew she was weak, but fighting anyway.

"Thank you for your kindness." She finished, "I pray the Maker treats you with generosity and that your plans are successful."

Cole left. It amazed him more down here that everyone's hurt was strong, but presented differently. It was unpleasant to consider it in any great detail, for it reminded Cole of all the screaming, but he could no longer remember how many he had counted and who he was recounting, so he gave up.

* * *

It was time to leave. He had to not listen to the voices and walk away. He had helped those in the prison, but not enough. There was no reason to linger on it. There would be another chance to help. His next important task was to remember everything that was said. It would be difficult to retain.

There was one important person who passed a corridor as he reached the level with the light. It was a man with thinning dark hair and stern features. He was a Red Templar, but he had armour more proficient and a sword like death's calling itself. He knew where he was going, carrying a bowl of stew with bread balanced on top.

A terrifying man with no human skin, but only red crystal, marched alongside him with a grin. He glowed like the important man's sword did.

"General, you missing the Venatori Champion?"

This man called General didn't look at the other Red Templar.

"I don't care for women. You know me, Keldon."

"Yeah." Keldon seemed to agree, "but I saw her blushing around you. I wasn't imagining it. She's pale enough that it's easy to notice."

The General sighed and paused in his tracks. Cole did too, as not to walk into them. The man tossed a penetrating stare to the recruit. "Do you see me blushing?"

_There is no colour in his face,_ Cole remarked immediately, _there are no feelings._

He found this unusual.

Keldon was intimidated, but his voice was calm. "No, General."

They kept walking. Cole followed. He trailed behind so much that he forgot to take the turn to leave the Castle. This important person was harder to describe than the others. It was intriguing.

_They are all hidden,_ Cole thought to himself, _his darkness. It is strong and weak like a bridge, left to the wind and the elements._

They two men kept walking until they entered a room. It was a pretty place, with many bookshelves, a painting, a tapestry on the walls and a desk.

"I rest my case, brother." The General answered finally. He sat down at a chair behind the desk and positioned his pieces of bread up like towers. "Remind me again what you're doing tomorrow."

"Scouting for more Red Lyrium at the Storm Coast, ser."

"Right." The important man's words were more formal, "You got everything?"

"Yes, General."

"List 'em for me, Keldon."

Keldon did, left the room and the General threw a book at the door to keep it closed. Cole saw it was labelled _Of Fereldan Social Contract_, the one that was spoken about earlier.

The ghost had to leave. He wasn't supposed to stay any longer. There was a lot to do. But this man was interesting.

_He wants it. He doesn't want it._ Cole tried to make sense of the man's aura, _He doesn't know. He wants it all. But there is nothing. _

For some reason, he wasn't afraid of this man, not yet. He was too tired. Interested to hear the noise of the General's mind closer, Cole paced around to his desk. If he could get close enough.

He stopped moving.

The General leaned back in his chair and peered at the ceiling, chewing food. The sound of his head wasn't like the other Red Templars. The General was special. The voices made exceptions for him. It was his destiny.

Cole felt afraid when the Red Templar leader looked down and met the spirits gaze. He wasn't truly seeing. The General couldn't see what Cole looked like or how tall he was, but the Red Templar leader knew Cole was there.

The spirit took a step back.

The General swallowed. Then he spoke.

"…Something there?"

His voice was slightly uncertain, hidden underneath the calm.

Cole stepped back again, but he didn't take his eyes off the General, like evading a predator. He couldn't stay. He had to leave.

The ghost glided faster toward the door. He was about to step through when a beam of red light flashed in front of his eyes and he could no longer move.

Then there were footsteps. The General approached. He got closer and prodded around in the air, eventually touching Cole's head.

He chuckled. "It's nice when I'm not being a nutcase."

He clicked his fingers. Now Cole was able to move, he turned to the General, whose grin was feral and predatory. "Or I guess I still might be. What do you think, hallucination?"

There was no point pretending.

Cole allowed his physical form to be visible. One of the man's knuckles twitched, then he gripped harder.

"How did you get here?" he tested.

"The guards couldn't see." Cole said.

"Who are you?" The General inquired, voice urgent, "Or… what are you? You here to cause trouble?"

"I…" Cole gulped. He didn't know how dangerous this man was, but his anger was strong. His sadness was further away, but even stronger. There would be no harm telling the truth. "I am… here to help."

"What?" The General looked genuinely confused. He peered at his wrist, to Cole and then glanced at the other side of the table. "If I be patient with you, hallucination, will you stay a bit?"

Cole was terrified. "Why…"

It was scarier that this enemy wanted to be nice to Cole.

The General's smile was less wretched, but still unnerving all the same. He let go of Cole and gestured to the desk. "Take my chair. Walking 'bout with those little feet must make you bleedin' exhausted, don't it?"

He placed back to his chair and placed his gnarled nails around the back of it. "I got supper to finish, lad. I don't mind having a chat. You're… I don't know what you are but I prefer to treat kids nicely. I'm not so scary. Red did most of that."

There was a contemptuous glare when the man mentioned the red lyrium. Thinking it might make it better the General stepped away and dazed out staring into the steam issuing from his soup.

Slowly, ever fearful Cole sat up on the chair and kept his hands in his lap. If he needed to he could use his daggers. Yes. He was capable of defending himself.

"My name is Cole." He explained slowly. "I am a spirit of the White Spire. I am here to help."

"The White Spire is Orlais's Circle." The man put the pieces together. "I heard about you spirit types. I don't get why you came here though? Orlais's across the bloody ocean. They say its prettier there." He seemed to realize he was interrogating. "Sorry. I'm General Samson. Dunno if you heard. Most know of me."

He ate some of his stew and pushed it to Cole. "Just sip from the bowl."

Cole was too scared to move. He thought of how to escape. They'd be time to, but there was a nicer way to make an exit without looking suspicious. "How can I help?"

Samson sat on the desk so his legs were positioned over the draws. "I'd like to know why you came here, Cole. Yeah, help. Pretty certain Orlais needs more help given their Chantry wretchedness. People are safe in here, lad… at least compared to out there."

He nodded to where the outside would be if the room had a window.

Cole knew he could possibly get through to this man the same way he did the others. He could pretend he had done nothing wrong.

"Your hurt." he began, tentative. "It is hidden away. No one knows where it went."

Samson's pupils briefly contracted in hearing of the words. "The red knows. Even the blue, lad." He hesitated. "It's locked away for a reason." His words darkened, "I don't want your help. You didn't come all the way to hear that? You hear voices too… they should have said about my head being impenetrable."

It was bizarre that this man could hear voices too. There were so few who could. It made the ghost feel comforted.

"You want to know where she went." Cole said slowly, making sense of his noise. "She went away and she doesn't come back."

Samson appeared wholly unamused now. "You're a creepy little spirit. What… I think you're not telling me everything. I said I don't need you to help me. My work helps me better than any person or spirit can. I don't want to turn this to wickedness but… why did you seek me out, really?"

Cole blinked hard. What should he say? How could he say it? There was no point lying if this man heard the noise.

"You know the Commander." he said "of the Inquisition. He is very angry."

"Cullen?" Samson's eyes flashed with intrigue, "If you know that prick you must be with his lot?"

Cole tried not to answer directly. He focused on Cullen's anger instead, "He wants you to die."

"I guessed before you did, Cole." Samson said with a grim smile. "So what? You came here to warn me?" he didn't mind that the spirit didn't answer. "That's awfully generous of you, spirit. Do you know why he's an irrational blockhead… why he's mad. I don't know so well… Haven't spoken to him in years." Samson lightly considered the past. "Sides, if he wants to fight me, I'd be happy to take him. We can settle it like men and not children. I would even have a heart to heart with him first if he wanted. The amount of stupid he will feel shall be the killing blow, spirit." He paused and tapped his fingers on the desk. "He wants his Inquisition types back, right? That's why you're here."

Cole nodded.

"Yeah, I get it." Samson looked at the wall for a while. "I'm telling you now he won't be able to get very far. But I'm not unreasonable. Let your Commander know General Samson is willing to have a chat… No tricks. I might even help… depends." He grinned. "What do you think, Cole?"

This stranger wanted to help the Commander. That seemed strange. But Cole also knew Samson wasn't lying. He was telling the best truth he could.

Cole shouldn't be here anymore.

"I will go now."

"You sure you don't want some food?"

"No. I am fine." Cole stepped away, his gaze not leaving Samson's until he reached the door, "Goodnight and thank you."

He turned invisible and left Redcliffe Castle behind.

* * *

_Authors Notes:_ Song lyrics mentioned are translations from "The Circle of the Lustful" by Mediæval Bæbes. Reference of Harper is from SteveGarbage's "Red Fallen Sun" fic. Check it out!

Thanks again so much to Flaminea for beta-ing, and redpurpleblack for helping to brainstorm!


	24. Iconoclasm

"By my Ancestors," Harding muttered. She wrapped her cloak around her tighter as she teetered in the side streets of Val Royeaux. Even though she'd been here for hours and she'd known better to expect the city to look the same, this was not what she imagined.

"Ostwick is the same." said one of the Trevelyan siblings. He sounded bored, like she was pointing out how grey the dormant Breach was. Even in the emptiness, he kept his shield and sword at the ready.

"That is… frightful to think about."

She couldn't remember the man's name, oh, how shameful.

"Nothing's scary if you have enough allies that know how to kill the nasty gits." He said, as though to reassure.

"Y-Yeah…"

Harding didn't feel calmed. Allies were exactly what they were lacking. She might as well not have her bow for how useless and pathetic she felt. For all she knew, the heat radiating from the ground would spontaneously set it on fire.

But this man was kind. He was grief stricken and angry over the loss of his sibling, the late Herald of Andraste, but regardless, he knew how to show tenderness. It was immediately apparent in his mannerisms and choices of conversation topic.

"At least I have you." She said, finally.

Why couldn't she remember his name?

"You actually have the advantage in this place." He remarked. "I can hardly see through the smog. Maybe you can climb on my shoulders and shoot from there."

The scout chuckled, but she knew this was such a terrible idea, even though she liked the concept of having her thighs over his shoulders a lot more than she'd ever admit to herself.

This city bore absolutely no resemblance to the colourful enterprise that had been glorified in the literature of the south of Thedas. In those the sketches were comprehensive, clean cut and depicted as a modern wonder. The ink was vibrant and radiated _life_. Even when visiting to address the Clerics in the Grand Cathedral, where the city was under close watch of Templars and chaos was amuck from green in the sky, it still wasn't _this_.

The streets were deserted and it was obvious why. Scorch marks ran across buildings like gigantic claw markings, the decorative and patriotic banners and flags were torn or burnt black. Blood that had mostly washed away from rain or – Maker help the person who did it – a mop, but it left a pinkish stain to the pavement. Splatters of congealed blood remained on carts, doors and the foliage that had survived the fires.

A thick amass of smog was billowing from the courtyard of the University. Was it a giant pyre, or perhaps there were many such fires and the smoke was a deliberate threat for everybody to stay away.

Harding kept her mouth covered by her scarf. Even away from the main squares the thick air watered her eyes and scratched at her throat.

The stink was unmistakable. Demons had been here, and perhaps the blood and tattered remains of unidentifiable mess contained human corpses too.

"This reminds me of something…" Trevelyan said thoughtfully, "Hmm… it's like being drunk at the early hours of the morning."

Harding waited until the next wave of smoke passed. "Is that a pleasant memory, sir?"

Later she'd wonder if Master Trevelyan's parties contained dead bodies.

"What do you think?" he inquired, gaze fixated on his surroundings and not her.

"I… I don't know about that, I'm afraid."

Still, Harding looked to gauge reaction anyway. He sounded calm as always. Was he joking?

"I once had that experience after a First Day celebration at my friend's house," Harding whispered, heaving through her scarf. "She woke me up from trying to turn the shower tap on with her feet."

Trevelyan glanced at Harding for reference, and she pointed to the left. This street had a blown up house in the middle of it.

"What was wrong with her arms?"

"Believe it or not, that remains a mystery." Harding said, solemnly. Remorsefully, she hoped her long lost friend wasn't dead.

The thought made her feel sick.

They'd just crossed the blown up rubble which used to be a house when a piece of fabric with the Chantry symbol painted in ink silently flopped onto Trevelyan's head and slipped to the ground.

Harding caught it. It was slightly damp.

"That for…" Trevelyan began, but the dwarf nodded.

It was confirmed as she turned over the magenta fabric. The words they'd been told to look for were written in cursive. This was the word of the contacts Cullen had recommended she find.

_Mais quand ils voient du sang sur nos lames de rasoir _

_Ça fait comme un éclair dans le brouillard_

**(*** But when they see blood our razor blades are like lightning in the fog.)

Harding approached the dwelling nearest to them. It was no different to the other houses, quiet and well designed. Some flowers even still survived on the top windowsill.

They took out their weapons just in case.

* * *

Their contacts had taken some effort to make the inside presentable. It was scented with the light aroma of flowers, but more noticeable was the lack of smoke and a sense of clarity. Many pot plants were positioned at arbitrary places around the room. It didn't seem to matter that there were windows, the shutters were closed and the room was lit with a number of lanterns.

It reminded Harding of the First Day she'd spent at her friend's house in Ferelden. The place was homely but unimpressive.

A sofa had been pushed to the center of the room where two small tables lay to the right. The combination was not meant to be. Papers, books and three masks were on it. Two figures, a man and a woman were comfortably sinking into the furniture, weighed down with armour and blankets. The man by the symbol was clearly a Templar. The other warrior was mysterious in the specialization. They were Cullen's age and shared his same expression of exhaustion.

Startled by the door opening, Harding and Trevelyan were washed with a spell purge from the male Templar, but his fingers twitched.

"Do not fear, humble persons," he begun, putting his hand down, "We are so accustomed to demons coming to visit, understand?"

Harding was startled. This man had an accent similar to Leliana. It was neither Orlesian nor Marcher. It was a combination of both.

"Sister! Sister! I think the Maker is expressing His gratitude for us this afternoon." said a light, cheery voice from the floor above. It was of Marcher origin, but was quickly distorted by the thumping of boots down the stairs. "We have vissitorrrsss!"

The noise made the Templar and the woman on the sofa twitch with each footstep, like parents bracing for the incoming storm of a child.

"Sorry for not knocking first." Trevelyan amended. "We thought… _she_ thought…"

He roughly brushed Harding's shoulder with his knuckles.

"Precaution." He finished, lamely.

Harding didn't bother to correct him. It wasn't _entirely_ her fault. She leaned back on the door to make sure it was closed.

"A-are you…" she stuttered slightly as she put her bow to the floor, "Ser Alphonse?"

The Templar flinched at his name, as though he hated it. "You remembered, clever girl. I am very impressed. Welcome to this piece of shit of a house."

As though greeting them to a castle, he stood to his feet and gave a small bow.

At that moment the girl who had supposedly dropped them the note finished prancing as she'd reached them, looking so happy this could have been a pleasant family reunion. She had warm brown eyes, blonde hair tied back with a string and was also wearing mismatched armour.

"Welcome," Trevelyan said, "I mean… hello to you too. I'm Edik Trevelyan. I am the older brother of the Herald of Andraste. This is Scout Harding. I wouldn't get fooled by her name, she's softer than melted butter."

Harding got the impression Edik liked this title, but maybe now it was ammunition rather than ostentatious. She turned pink at the thought of being a softie.

"It's _Lace_ Harding." She said, secretly hoping that Edik had forgotten her name too and had been waiting for this moment.

There was no indication if this was the case.

Alphonse gave a grim smile. "How adorable the two of you are."

Harding turned even brighter at that and she turned her ankles out ever so slightly so Edik wouldn't see her.

"I happen to find these flowers adorable. Maybe even girlish." Edik tried to save the conversation. "Are you a feminine sort of man, Alphonse?"

"At times," the Templar gave a hard look at the woman still on the sofa. "yes, sometimes I am even more so than her."

He tapped his foot impatiently, but the blonde spoke up.

"I am Phillipa Evitt. I used to attend the Gallows with Commander Cullen in his Templar days," she said, unable to wipe the smile from her face, "and this is my sister, Zoe. She was a member of the Gallows too once."

"Or Elizabeth, if Zoe is too trying." Alphonse said.

"Either is fine." Zoe said, moving closer to the edge of the sofa. Like Phillipa, her Marcher origin was apparent in her voice, "Pleasure to meet you. It's nice to get to the end of that sentence and not have a knife thrown in my face."

The brunette sounded incredibly bitter, even if her smile was genuine. Harding couldn't help noticing her eyes were as brilliantly green and dangerous as the Breach in the sky.

"They are sisters by association and not of blood… and truth be told, also Seekers." Alphonse said. "But we do not broadcast it to the world, _comprends_? We hate to love secrets, or love to hate them. I do not care anymore which one it is. May I retrieve you some water?"

"If it's drinkable, yes please."

Harding was startled that she and Edik had said this at exactly the same time. Her breath stopped abruptly by how embarrassing this was.

"No, it is poisoned and we are so highly advanced creatures that our bodies have developed a resistance to it." Alphonse said airily. He stepped around Phillipa to find a cupboard. "Non, I only wish that was the truth. Most Royans departed after discovering they could not enjoy their fancy drinks. _Elsewhere, the upper class, spoiled lifestyle still exists,_ is what I believe they were thinking."

"He means mineral water." Phillipa said.

"_Rubbish_ water." Zoe corrected.

"I could not care less at this point." Edik said. Now sword away, he paced forward, and Harding followed in what she hoped was an autonomous, and not clingy manner.

When Alphonse returned with two glasses of water, he took a curious look at the now completely occupied sofa and decided to sit on the table instead. It was only apparent now how much taller he was out of everybody. Perhaps he was the tallest man Harding had ever seen. His oblong face, despite the fact he had not shaved for a week or so, was reassuringly non-threatening. His combed dirty blonde hair was the only feature that looked typically Orlesian.

Harding and Edik gave gracious thanks before bringing the drink to their lips.

"What is novel and amiable with the Inquisition?" Alphonse said. "From what I guess it is atrocious, but the Commander is far too polite."

"The Diplomat Josephine wrote the letter." Phillipa said, "Cullen's writing is not that tidy."

Zoe gave an appreciated smirk. "Even if the Inquisition has gone to the mud, we are here to make it… less so."

"Yes, that is our hope." Phillipa said, slightly less confident. She sat on the table next to Alphonse too, and the furniture creaked under the weight. "We only need to wait for Ser Noah to return from his food scouting with the other Templars and we can leave to your headquarters."

"How has the weather been treating you here?" Edik said. Harding knew it was his way of asking,_ how terrible is it here, really?_

Alphonse gave a cynical chuckle. "It is not _treating_ us at all. It is abusing us, what a malicious horror. But we cannot believe the apologies anymore."

"I love you too." Zoe said absently, referring to Alphonse and he brushed her leg with his.

"You apologize far better than the city, dear."

"Sister," Phillipa interrupted, with a hint of sternness. "Don't forget your important question."

"I wasn't going to." Zoe said airly. Harding moved involuntarily in her seat as the Seeker twisted around to look at them. "I was only delaying the inevitable."

"Ask your question, Zoe." Alphonse said, in the sweetest tone he'd managed so far.

The woman inhaled deeply and her posture destroyed itself on the exhale. Harding was taken aback by how sad the Seeker looked.

"Ser Noah heard an awful rumour months ago…" she hesitated, "That the Red Templars on your side of Thedas are being led by a certain… _person_."

"Ser Samson." Phillipa affirmed.

The air thinned… or perhaps it thickened… either way, Harding could feel that something was not right.

Zoe, now looking pained, nodded. "Yes." There was a pause. "Is it true?"

There was an edge to her tone, an uncertainty, as though she didn't want to know the answer. Bewildered, Harding turned to Edik, who was too busy sipping water.

"Is that the Red Templar General guy Cullen hates?" he said.

The room was almost as eerie as the streets outside, possibly worse, in that moment. Harding turned from one interested face to the other. She got the impression these contacts were possibly just as acquainted with the Red Templar leader as Cullen was.

Maybe they hated him too.

But… she glanced at each one of them again. That couldn't be true. The looks on their faces was the same as Edik's whenever he talked about his sister.

It was grief.

"Unfortunately, I suppose, it _is_ true, Seeker Zoe…. Or Elizabeth… miss," Harding said, timid.

She didn't want to know what their emotions meant. She didn't like thinking about death and friendships being ripped apart anymore.

No. There would always be more stories of misfortune.

The dwarf watched with sorrow as the Seeker visibly frowned. It was one of the most pronounced frowns, the one that might make Zoe get wrinkles over the next five years.

"Why do you ask?" Edik inquired, although Harding sensed the unease in his voice too, "Did you know him?"

The Seeker's eyes seemed to lose whatever emotion they were holding a second ago. Instead of looking like the vibrant Breach, they were now absent and dormant.

"Erm…" Zoe said. She peered to Phillipa, for inspiration, but the blonde turned to Alphonse for an answer.

It was the Templar who said, "When can a person know with absolute certainty they understand the motives of another?"

"When indeed." Phillipa agreed, sadly. "The Maker did not guide him back to the peaceful path. It is terribly disheartening."

Zoe was still dazing off into the distance, unable to say anything.

"You look very upset, Seeker Elizabeth." Harding said, not able to decide which form of address she preferred for the woman.

Zoe pursed her lips, thoughtful, and then the expression disappeared in defeat. "Yes. Though… upset is only grazing the surface."

"Err, should I ask?" Edik wondered.

"No." Alphonse said curtly. "There is no reason to discuss it now, if ever again. It would take too long, and require alcohol we don't possess."

"It must be rather complicated, I guess?" Harding guessed. She wiggled in the seat so she didn't sink so far into it she disappeared.

The atmosphere in the room changed again. Suddenly, Harding felt torrid between Edik and Zoe.

The woman rose to her feet, stepped around to the table and picked up what could only be assumed as her sword.

Her expression was impossible to describe as she looked upon it.

"Yeah." She said, impassively. With impressive finesse, she went through a drill. "Whatever person he was before, I can't trust him now. Nobody can." it sounded like she might cry, but she countered her emotions with a practiced swipe onto an invisible person's shoulders. "For my own sake, I will pretend he is irredeemable, for he has done too much wrong."

The next words could have echoed forever.

"And I want to be the one to kill him."

Not one soul in that room argued with her, or questioned it any further.

* * *

The Western Approach wasn't very exciting. The name screamed worthwhile adventure, but the only part that made Isabela's heart leap was if she saw a patch of grass or a puddle. They were very rare, often overlooked details. It made her wish she was back in Arla, or there was a river she could bypass by her ship, but considering her luck, it was likely in ruins. What a waste. Still, she tried to remain positive. At least horseback had reduced a lot of the muscle aches she might be feeling right now, but it was still not ideal.

The winds confronted its visitors with specks of sand like someone pelting rocks at parts of her that were exposed and covered in scratches.

"There's too much yellow." Isabela decided finally. As her right arm was aching from bracing in front of her face for so long, she swapped to the left for the fifth time today. "I will never be able to glance upon an arid wasteland without turning stupid and ridiculous ever again."

The Tevinter tower in any case was supposed to look interesting. At least, she hoped so. That's what everyone said, but… with the Inquisition, Isabela distrusted the general opinion a lot less than usual.

"It would be better if I could throw the sand at my brother's head." Hawke noted from her left. His voice was slightly distorted. "But it would only tumble into my mouth."

It was probably because of trying to avoid confrontation or awkwardness that Carver had taken the lead, or perhaps it was because his red lyrium arm could easily withstand the gusts of sand.

Despite the effort, the attempts at remaining anti-social never became completely unnoticed. Alistair conversed with him a few times, but trailed at the back of the group once the notion of talk was exhausting. That was hours ago now.

"At least he can act like a normal person when not talking to anybody," Hawke remarked, "When we were in Ferelden he'd get really attention seeking if Bethany and I left him out of our games, like throw stuff at us."

"And that is surprising somehow?" Isabela inquired. It wasn't right that Hawke could get away with insulting Carver this time, given she blamed herself for the reason. "If I left you alone for too long you would faint."

"Yeah, but you have that effect on more people than me, and not for the best reasons. Mostly, strangers look at you and hope they don't get murdered." Hawke joked. "I'm only saying it's about time he acted more like a person, and I was so ready for the Gallows to make him worse."

Isabela shrugged. She suspected Garret's gratitude for Carver's attitude 'improvement' was for the wrong reasons, so she invented, "Sleeping away from us probably made a difference."

She slowed down as Carver stopped in front of them. Granite arches loomed over him. What looked like a bridge laid beyond it. He turned back at the group, but Isabela noticed his eyes lingered on hers for a fraction longer than anyone else. Over the silence the Templar had developed a look of intense concentration rather than vexation.

"Look." he said. He gestured upward. "I found something. Lights."

It made sense that the grey footstones would eventually lead to something, but it seemed like the Western Approach had lots of paths that didn't necessarily go anywhere. Therefore, it was a startling revelation.

Isabela looked up. A cream fortress laid ahead, a windy, pointy structure which in her opinion, was intolerably ugly. Dry grass littered around its edges, signs that there may be some variety of intelligent life beyond. Vibrant beams of violet and white weaved into the sky like a signal fire. Even though it was dangerous, it was the prettiest sight she'd witnessed in the Western Approach so far. The air was so thick that nobody else would be able to see it unless they were this close.

"They do know how to put on a light show." she said.

"More likely, they're trying to show off with blood magic." Hawke said, "But how about we show them how to be real show offs?"

"Your arrogance never ceases to amaze me." Isabela said, though she did not detract her gaze from the lights. Garret's tendency to be proud often did not bother her, for she dabbled in that flaw from time to time, though there was no amusement in it either. Whatever danger was ahead, being bigoted was unlikely to help matters. It wasn't the same as smuggling or mercenary work. The Inquisition's enemies thought in a different way, and it might be something she had not mastered.

"Stay behind me." Carver said. "Given I look like a Red Templar, they're probably less likely to attack if I get spotted."

"Yes, I think what was missing out of this blood magic fiasco was a small dose of grandiosity." Alistair said. He appeared stern and bitter. "I don't look forward to waiting. I'd probably spontaneously combust."

They walked, with the vague hope that maybe this would soon mark the end of walking and the beginning of justice sweeping the land. Instead, the bridge led to a staircase to triumph all staircases. As they crossed corpses and spiked pillars, the stamina truly started to drain.

However, Isabela gave half a smile. At least there was some more grass visible from the height. They were also high enough that the sand didn't assault them.

Hawke raised an eyebrow as the crackling of electricity hissed through the air. It seemed the ritual had already begun. Not only that, but given how Carver had stopped to hide behind a pillar, they had to reassess their already-established poor strategy.

Cautiously, Isabela moved behind him, while Hawke and Alistair stood behind a different pillar. Below was bad news. There was a glowing green rift, the blazing red of a demon, four Grey Wardens crowded around it and a tall mage with white robes, possibly the worst facial hair ever and silver gauntlets. He was pacing. The sounds were like if a whirlpool and volcano decided to make friends.

Bewilderingly, as though one of the Wardens had sensed their presence, fell to his knees as a rope of light surrounded him. He was getting on in years but still fit as anything.

"Please, Erimond! No more!" the voice was near hysterics, maybe one of a person experiencing a nightmare, "This is not right! You - brothers, sister, you _know_ this!"

The mage, this Erimond, said, "Remember your oath, Warden."

"I am!" the Warden tried to break free of the spell. It was a gruesome sight, like a rabbit caught in a trap. "I do!"

"You do not." Called another Warden from across the square.

"HE DOES!"

This was the voice of a woman. It didn't come from the circle of Wardens performing the ritual. Since all useless nobodies from the area were too busy struggling with fulfilling basic needs for survival, the stranger was an intruder.

There was choler in her voice that surpassed even Erimond. Whoever it was, this woman was pissed off.

Taken aback, all eyes poured on the source of the interruption, to the far left of Erimond. It seemed it wasn't entirely unfamiliar either judging from the reaction from Alistair.

Too much occurred at once.

"Maker!" Alistair gasped. A hand flew to his mouth, to shut himself up.

Hawke addressed the King with his eyes and they were flummoxed, , trying to understand, but he clearly didn't.

"No?" he said.

Who knew what that was referring to… thankfully the enemies were just as stunned and hadn't noticed the movement.

"Who DARES interrupt me?" Erimond threatened. With a sticky hatred in his tone, he spun around.

A bloodied up Grey Warden – judging from the dented and stained blue armour, descended on the platform from a pillar almost directly opposite them. For a moment she could had been one of the demons. The gigantic bruise on her face tinged her skin puce and her matted red hair was roughly kept out of her eyes by string. As she marched, her gaze met their group. Her brown eyes were as vibrant as the fire demon. This stranger had _seen_ them.

"How vexing. Would you like to take this man's place?" Erimond tested, addressing the stranger.

The Warden refused to speak as she approached, almost as if waiting for them to join her.

Alistair looked visibly irritated, "There. We agree – let's interfere and kill that mage. How about we move on before the Wardens get completely disgraced!"

The man almost jumped onto the scene, but Hawke grabbed him. The roughness of the gesture allowed Alistair a moment to reflect. His expression fell from rage to concern, physically immobilized and perplexed by the Warden who had intervened. The two must know each other, but how? There were other matters that needed addressing first.

The Rivain Pirate peered at her lover, and Carver, pondering on the best course of action. They couldn't keep standing out of sight and the others would cause too much suspicion. They were terrible with being diplomatic. It was obvious who needed to talk here

"I'll handle it." Isabela said. She stepped beyond where Alistair had gone, "and watch an expert charm her way out of trouble."

"You love walking into it, dear." Hawke said. There was a hint of that grin she adored.

"We all go." Carver told them.

As Isabela approached she was acutely aware of the eyes on her, and the crackling of magic around her, the humidity of the danger, but she was used to it. She did not care.

"More guests?" Erimond raised a head, "What an unexpected surprise. To whom am I being acquainted?"

"A bunch of people who are not Wardens and were honestly happy until a few minutes ago," Isabela said, as though this was a party. "and since this will only be quick, I think we can give each other fake names so then we don't have to feel bad when we wake up and forget them tomorrow…."

The Warden woman's lips twitched into a small smile.

"Wardens," Alistair commanded. He turned away from Erimond. "This man is lying to you. Corypheus, whatever he is, has enslaved you. He's trying to make you unleash a Blight."

"That's a very serious accusation." Erimond said.

"_You're_ a serious accusation." Carver spat.

"What he really means," Hawke added, "is that you're a mad idiot."

"That is undisputable." Agreed the Warden woman.

"You're so confident." Erimond sounded amused, "but how many of the Wardens agree?"

They all watched as no Wardens spoke to defend themselves.

"I happen to call that cheating where I come from." Hawke said pointedly.

"If you weren't using your blood magic, I doubt they'd be so loyal!" Carver said.

"They did this to themselves. It is not something I could alter." Erimond said, with a hint of smugness.

"Yes, by manipulation," retorted the unnamed Warden, "The Calling was only a scheme to corner them into submission by feeding on their terror. Only the worst dictators do that."

"We are all up to date with the news." Isabela said. She felt stronger now. They had practically outnumbered the enemy Grey Wardens. "That doesn't cover the fact you were sneaky and misleading in your management of these poor men and women."

"I suppose blood magic ritual is supposed to make them less afraid? That lies are supposed to make it all go away?" Alistair tested.

"Since Corypheus was the one who put the Calling in their little heads, well… yes, the binding ritual has a side effect of making Corypheus their master." the man looked bored, "Warden Commander Clarel and I are prepared to raise a demon army to kill the Old Gods, and here we are. Today was a test. I know the ritual can work. And what role do you fools have with Warden business?"

"You're not a Warden either." Alistair said, "It's fitting, isn't it? Non Wardens have come to stop another non Warden from plunging the world into chaos. Surrender now."

"Or we will make you sorry you didn't." Carver finished.

"It's a shame,' Erimond said. He didn't raise his staff, but stepped toward the Templar, "If you keep taking the red lyrium without instruction on how to control it, the corruption will kill you quicker than you need." He paused, to see if anyone would attack, but no one did, "If you come with me, I can direct you to a special ally who can help you."

There was a bizarre pause. Isabela wasn't sure whether to believe him. Was it a lie? Was he just trying to use this as a distraction to get away? He scanned everyone else in the group, but they were equally as taken back by this proposal.

Carver however, was stunned in place. His pupils turned to pinpricks and his stance faltered.

"Wait…" his voice loudened. "What do you mean? There's _no way_ to control it!"

"Brother." Hawke said sharply. "Don't be so stupid. He doesn't know anything. He's just trying to mess with us."

"B-but…" Carver dashed forward a few steps and paused.

The Venatori had obviously encountered a similar circumstance before. While they were talking, no one was attacking.

Carver looked seriously confused. What was more concerning was that little Hawke had been intrigued by the suggestion. Why? He never let his guard down when it came to an enemy. There was self interest in the proposal. It wasn't a kindness for the sake of it. It never could be. So why would Carver still hesitate? He must be beyond desperate…for what? Something had _changed_ in him.

Erimond chuckled. Delight glittered from his dark eyes. "I hope you don't think we make Red Templars from nothing."

This Venatori knew he'd thrown everybody off.

Isabela remembered something else. During the conversation before they'd left Arla Carver mentioned he was anxious about some disaster occurring here.

"Carver."

Her words were expectantly stern. If something bad was going to happen, it couldn't be this. It had to be something heroic and meaningful, not _this_. He really be considering leaving to join their _enemy_.

Carver's regard gave away no clues as to his intentions. He merely looked his mildly irked self.

"What?"

"You said… remember you thought something bad was going to happen here?"

She avoided Garret's eye, but she knew he was probably making an odd face at her. They'd have a gruelling talk about it later, if they weren't going to die in a few minutes.

Carver's eyes darted to his brother's, then back to Isabela, "Yeah, so what? I was…" he tried to brush it off, probably because Hawke was glaring at him, "I was probably just being paranoid."

"What are you two talking about?" Hawke demanded. "Can you not be stupid for once, Carver? Like, can you not actually be an idiot? I thought you'd gotten better these past few years. Don't just listen to what he says. He's probably trying to manipulate you like he has these Grey Wardens."

Carver glared at Erimond, who had created a barrier of light around him.

He removed his sword from its sheath, and from the sounds that followed the woman Warden and Alistair did the same.

There was a contrasting burst of purple light as Garret prepared a spell of his own.

"What use do you have for me?" Carver asked. His eyes were on Erimond, unblinking and stern, but the hatred was not returned. "You know, if I go with you…. I'm not agreeing with anything you're doing. I'll go quietly but I won't join your cause. I won't fight my friends. I only want to control the red lyrium. If that's not what you're after then we'll all kill you right now."

He _was_ considering it. Shit. Not only that, the conditions had been verbalized without a hint of hesitation. It was like he'd almost been planning this. This wasn't right. No. It couldn't be like this.

Yet it was.

Isabela was so floored she couldn't even peer at Garret for reassurance.

As though tired of the exchange, the demons circled them sluggishly and shrieked.

Erimond had the smallest hint of a smile on his lips. "Don't worry. The Red Templar General likes it when new recruits come quietly. I doubt your differing views will bother him if you can make yourself useful, even if it's menial work. The Elder One knows there's more than that than anyone needs."

Carver hesitated. He turned to Hawke and looked enraged, "What's that egotistical face for, brother? I thought you'd be happy to get rid of me."

It was like all the bitterness over his entire life had been condensed into that one sentence. Everyone turned to Garrett. Despite his spell becoming ever brighter, his expression was one of shock. As though the outburst from Carver meant little, he succeeded to keep his spell and footing still and controlled.

"Not like this." Hawke said. The words were almost inaudible over the magic. "You're giving yourself up to the enemy."

"I'm not." Carver said. Again, there was no wavering in his tone. He didn't even sound afraid, but determined. "I only need to get out of your way for a while. I can fight anyone off who tries to mess with me."

Isabela suspected the truth. This wasn't just about red lyrium. It was about control. He wanted the autonomy to have a say in his own life circumstances, and if that meant separating himself from Hawke again, like he did going to the Gallows, then that was what he would do.

She couldn't let him do this, especially not given recent circumstances.

The Pirate stepped forward, "Before you go," she grabbed his arm and muttered in his ear. "Is this my fault? Is this your over exaggerated way of running from all the feelings again? Because that's not fair if you get to run away from it but I can't…"

The rogue had little idea what she was referring to. She felt bad for rejecting Carver, sure, but mostly from it making life awkward now, and that she couldn't ease it… she wouldn't be able to escape that underlying sense of guilt if he departed. Maybe it would get worse.

"I'm not a coward." Carver said. He spoke louder, as if addressing everyone, "I'm not running away. I'm dealing with it like an adult should. Red lyrium makes my feelings worse. If I don't learn to control it, sooner or later I'm going to do something even stupider than joining the enemy, something worse than meeting my death." He halted suddenly, "That's why I have to go."

Isabela was surprised that she felt sad. She hadn't felt this way when he went to the Gallows. She'd found him a decent person since the Breach appeared in the sky. It would be emptier to travel without him now.

'What in the Maker's name could be worse?" Hawke demanded. "Death and joining the enemy are both the fates we've been trying to avoid. What else _is_ there?"

"There are plenty of worse things I could do." Carver spat. Just for a split second his iris gleamed at Isabela. "Like lashing out and hurting my family. I don't want another repeat of what happened to mother, so… yeah, in case I don't see you again… thank you for all that you have done, put up with and taught me." as though feigning embarrassment, he glanced at Isabela, "I know I don't say it much because it's embarrassing but I love you both."

He made the words sound so casual, like they were actually part of a family that said it every day, but they weren't. The Hawkes were a broken family, and in this context Garret didn't question his brother. He didn't notice the double meaning behind Carver's words to Isabela. They were just a family that were going to be torn apart again.

"The condition of instating you to the General," Erimond ventured, completely ignoring the bickering in the group, "While you may refuse to fight for our side, if you fight for theirs, we will kill you."

He glanced at Hawke, Isabela, the other Warden and Alistair with a cunning sharpness.

"Whatever." Carver shrugged. He swivelled his sword and clicked one of his fingers, "Guess I'm no good on either side, anyway."

Not hesitating for instruction, each person in the square flinched by the crack like a whip from the Templar's knuckles.

With a burst of uneven red light and a sizzling, the burst crinkled Erimond's gauntlets and they burst off as though exploded. It made him stumble. If it wasn't obvious before that the youngest Hawke's powers were erratic and unbidden, it was now.

"Until I get there in one piece," Carver said, "There will be no fighting here from you. Take me to your camp now."

It was an order to which they'd be no exceptions. Even the demons silenced to its call.

Erimond grumbled, annoyed, but conceded. "Very _well_." He quickly repaired his armour with the spell, "Come along."

Amazingly, the two simply walked away. It would have been a solemn moment, like the ending of a play if in more jubilant days, but no one focused on that.

A blood bath was imminent. The footsteps of the Venatori bastard and Carver was merely the drumroll to announce it. There was no time for goodbyes, protests of the world's unfairness or wishes for good luck, only the rumble of preparation as the light from Garret's spell erupted like a lightning storm. It made the pillars around them vibrate and shift out of visual focus with the energy, like the entire fortress was engulfed in smoke.

A blood bath was approaching.

"In peace, vigilance…" one of the Wardens said. He approached the Warden that had been writhing on the floor and pierced a sword through his chest, "In death, sacrifice."

The scream was not the disturbing detail. It wasn't the demons or the sheer craziness of dark magic, but the betrayal of having Grey Wardens truly mark themselves of the enemy and the distress that they were now missing a Templar, an ally, a brother and a friend.

The ritual was not like a light show. It was the marking of territory, and they'd stepped too far over the line.

As blood poured onto the grey pavement, the demons roared and the rift flickered brighter, Isabela couldn't decide if she was happy or not that at least they wouldn't have to fight a Venatori.

* * *

_Authors Notes:_ Thanks to Flaminea for beta-ing for me and the feedback. The scene at the start was a new addition, and I loved writing it. It contains OCs from my other Samson-centric stories. It contained some spoilers, I apologize.

The french words earlier in the story are lyrics from a song called, "Quand on arrive en ville" originally by Daniel Balavoine.


	25. Recovery

The ramparts ceased to look straight. As if encircled by steam they turned wobbly, curved at irregular angles, and the sky blended into it. The stench of blood was fresh, nauseating and deplorable. Beyond her it was thicker.

A Grey Warden fell to the marble with a thud. His sword clattered, leaving only stillness. There were no others. No more Grey Wardens had to be killed… for now.

That fight was too close.

The heaviness of dead Grey Wardens surrounding them made the eeriness so much worse, but the sound was gone. The vibrant lights had faded. The backdrop returned to the gusts of sand.

Isabela leaned against one of the pillars exhausted, fumbling as she put her blades back in their rightful place by her hip.

Her guts had nearly been sliced out.

Her wound pulsed and seemed to extend further than beneath her ribs, as it altered the sensation of her chest and hips.

Pressing her palms to beneath her ribs, her knees quaked and blood drenched her belly and fingers, becoming stickier as it dried in the open air.

Hawke hurried to her, "Isabela…"

What a good man.

"Isabela, no falling…."

The world, like his speech, disappeared and reappeared.

It was upside down now… or just not the right way round.

Hawke's hands were holding onto her head. His eyes… _those_ warm eyes were imploring for her to be alright. She was sitting, she thought. Is that what this was? She groaned and screamed as it felt like either side of her injury had been punched.

Garrett was talking, but she wasn't certain on the content. His face was illuminated when his hands gently landed on her torso. Magic wasn't supposed to hurt this much, was it? She looked down at her hands by her sides, palms caked with black, and the skin and wound became translucent by a glow. It was closing. He wasn't great at healing. That had always been Anders forte. Yes, her wound was not bleeding as much anymore. It wasn't a gaping atrocity.

Water poured from her lover's hands to clean it, and Isabela's focus returned somewhat, at the expense of a chill.

"It's still bleeding," Hawke said, removing his hands. He looked clearer now. "Keep the pressure on it. Can you walk?"

Her legs were only bruised, so what was the worst that could happen? She'd faint and someone would have to carry her back to camp. Having her corpse carried by her man would be an acceptable fate.

Isabela nodded, "The question isn't if, but i-it…" she shivered, "it would be wonderful if I didn't have to."

"Sorry, my lovely," Hawke said, "but hey, I'm willing to bet I'm more exhausted than you."

Her side still aching, Isabela pressed against the wound as much as she could. What remained were minor lacerations rather than a big gash. They stung in the air and small beads of blood pushed through, but it was hardly a worry compared to before.

"Hawke!"

That was Alistair.

Just like that, her personal chaperone hurried to the other side of the square to tend to the King and the unnamed Warden's injuries.

It could be worse. It could be a lot worse. The King couldn't really fight, but he'd done an impressive job in helping guarding the elf Warden. Now he had cuts on his arms and legs. The Warden, however, had blood down one side of her face and appeared to be wavering in and out of consciousness.

So long as a nug didn't attack them on the way back to camp, they were going to make it out of here alive.

Isabela regained her strength for an immeasurable amount of time until Hawke, Alistair and the Warden approached her, dripping with water from wounds being cleaned.

"Come on, Isabela."

She wasn't sure who said that.

"We need to get out of here now."

One of her arms was wrapped around someone's – oh, she _knew_ those shoulders, it was Hawke's.

"Yeah, I know."

Sluggishly and clammy, but less so, Isabela reluctantly rose to her feet, shivering as the conversation continued.

"I take by the dramatic gasp earlier that you know this Warden, Alistair," Hawke said.

Isabela didn't see how Alistair reacted, but his voice came from slightly in front of her. "This is Willow Tabris, the Hero of Ferelden, and my former mistress. Yes, a King can have a mistress, in fact; maybe I had many of them. Its fine, my love, no need to retreat into your shell."

"My shell is safer. And I was his _favourite_ mistress, if you want to define me so simplistically," Willow said. The voice was also slightly in front of Isabela to the left, "Anyway, are you going to introduce me to these friends of yours?"

"We met… more or less by accident." Alistair said sheepishly, proceeding to introduce each one.

"Yes, that's me," Isabela said, hardly able to form coherent thought, "wait, you're the Hero of Ferelden."

"He did just say that." Hawke said from beside her.

Isabela almost tripped over as they started down the stairs. "I'm meeting everybody famous these days. Lucky me. Maybe that means I'm famous too… about time, really….. oh no!"

The mage grabbed her tighter before she fell and broke her nose or her skull on the stone tiles.

"Are you _sure_ you're still able to walk?"

"Not on these stairs. Everyone is walking too fast."

"I don't think we were racing. Lean on me more," Hawke said, "We'll go very slowly

Being agile was a quality Isabela was proud of, but descending the stairs away from the ritual tower, she was content to be pacing herself.

* * *

Alistair found himself hypnotized by his lover beside him. She looked so different to last time he'd seen her. In ways, she looked healthier - her complexion, despite the mess, was fuller. Maybe she'd found decent meals on her travels, in others she was fragile – the bruise hadn't been there before, and he didn't want to think about how it would ache now the wounds on her head were roughly closed.

They were back where they'd started, across the bridge, where seas of sand lay ahead. There were no enemies in plain sight, not even one of those gigantic reptiles. Good, very good. He could never tell which part was their head or tail.

"Do we have a little bit of a plan or are we going to brace the wilderness and never return?" Alistair inquired.

"We need to recover and quickly," Willow said briskly, "Where is your camp?"

Alistair pointed five degrees to the right, "Somewhere that way if you walk for about an hour."

"As much as I despise to admit it, I don't think any of us are going to last that long." Hawke said.

Isabela was staring at her feet, mumbling to herself incoherently.

"Mine is closer," Willow said, "by half that time."

"How wonderful for you to appear when you did," Alistair said with a smile. He called over his shoulder, "Any objections, Garret?"

"None, let's go."

They began the trek back the other way. The sand made their ankles hurt and the weather was more draining now they'd been overexerted from the fight. Willow and Alistair took the lead, with Hawke close behind.

"How does the Hero of Fereldan end up out here?" Hawke called from behind them.

"With a lot of help," Willow answered, giving her most kind hearted smile, "Do you think I got here magically or something?"

"Yes." Hawke replied.

"Barely." Willow said, "Although it would be so nice if I could have… so very, very nice."

She pushed some hair out of her eyes, revealing that one of her elf ears was scabbed over.

"Should I ask if we can still retrieve their help, or are they already dead?" Alistair said.

"They came and went. I left my last group upon entering the Western Approach. I asked for a lot of favours to get to Weisshaupt, then back…"

"Another Weisshaupt visitor!" Hawke interjected. "Did they give you crackers and cheese like good hosts?"

"Must have missed her." Isabela justified.

"I think so." Willow guessed, quickly diverting back to Alistair, "I usually didn't get favours outside of Ferelden, and so… you won't like what I have to tell you. When I said I was the Hero of Fereldan most didn't believe me, and how was I supposed to prove it? I might have to walk a few kilometres, or climb out of a carriage and before asking for more help. It's pitiful. People won't believe the truth but they're happy to believe lies, like how I'm a lonesome virgin who wants to be deflowered, that I'm a knife eared whore that needs reprimanding. It was like being abducted by Vaughan all over again. When luck ran out I donated my body for some kindness, transport, food, coin… I stole and sold… once I got weapons and armour I killed and stole. I am not proud of it. But it got me here. It brought me back to you."

In more appropriate circumstances this might be where Alistair would give Willow a kiss and a passionate night, but that time was not now.

"I had the assistance of strangers too, but I had allies before leaving Ferelden." He said. "I'm sorry, my dear."

"How did you find the ritual tower? When did you escape?" Willow asked. There was desperation in her eyes, for questions that had been long suppressed were finally allowed freedom.

"The villagers freed me from the Castle," Alistair began recounting this story for at least the fifth time, "and I went looking for the Inquisition."

* * *

Isabela woke to Hawke changing one of her dressings on her leg. The lantern behind them was enduring its last flickers. Willow's camp did not fit the conventional description of 'camp'. It was contained within a mining cavern, an immensely cramped, isolated part of it. A small lantern was lodged within some sand, and some tattered clothes were used as a blanket. They were half covered in sand now. Luckily she hadn't been poisoned from inhaling the sooty air for too long, but her throat still felt parched.

"Good evening." Hawke said.

"Garrett." Isabela turned, and realized no one else was there. "Did your thunderous stomach scare everybody away again?"

Hawke smiled, "No, but the calling for justice did. Willow overheard brief details of their plans before we arrived. Basically the rest of the Venatori and Wardens are congregated at a fortress. If they're going to try the ritual again, it will be there. There are extra camps all over. Alistair and Willow will have to outrun them."

"Really, they haven't given up on losers like us?" Isabela said, dumbfounded.

"We should have pushed them down those stairs." Hawke remarked. He ran a hand through her hair, "Alistair and Willow went to our camp to recruit the Inquisition first."

"And then the plan is to run at them looking scary?" she probed.

"Alistair and Willow are plenty terrifying." Hawke said. "They're going to an Adamant Fortress. I have to admit at least it sounds impressive." He placed a hand between her shoulder blades, "I presume you're not mentally or physically stable enough to fight."

"That depends if you'd prefer I make the stupid or smart decision." Isabela said.

"The better idea is that we will guard camp while the others do the attacking for us." Hawke said.

"That isn't like you." Isabela said, mortified.

"No, but I'd rather my girlfriend didn't die." Hawke praised with a smile.

"Finally I stand above your ego in importance."

"I also have a lot on my mind." Hawke finished, more firmly. He glistened a small beam of healing magic to Isabela's injury.

Isabela thought she knew what that was about. How could Garrett not be worried about his brother?

"I can't believe what Carver did." Hawke said, as if in soliloquy.

Isabela wasn't sure what to think or say. It was a shock, yes, but what else?

"He really didn't make the clever decision with that one."

Though she knew that maybe Carver was doing what was right for him. He had promised Isabela he wouldn't do anything stupid… had he broken that promise? Or had he kept it? Not a fan of how distant he had become, she couldn't tell, uncertain.

"How could he be such an idiot?" Hawke demanded, angry, "Seriously… out of everything he has done which I hate, like _existing_, joining the Red Templars tops even that!"

Isabela sighed, fed up with the attitude. "When you're done with being an ass about your family…"

"Right, because you're _happy_ he's gone?" Hawke growled, and then the deeper layers showed themselves. "He's all I have left - I can't have him get himself killed like Bethany or my mother!"

"I know." Isabela sighed. The heartache of losing loved ones was a fate she'd endured her fair share of, though there was no enjoyment in it. "Then again, if he thought staying would make him worse…"

"How can you AGREE?" Hawke shouted. "Do you want to join the Red Templars too? Do you want to throw away _everything_?"

Isabela inhaled slowly, and wasn't sure if she wanted to let the breath out again. Feeling bad for Carver, she wished to negate the guilt.

"I'm not happy he's gone," she said, "I was slightly happier when he was around, but there's nothing we can do."

"That's why I hate it!"

"That's why I don't," Isabela said, "What would it achieve to indulge myself in how terrible I feel? Everyone feels terrible about everything these days. I can manage, somehow, the same I always have."

She rolled over so she could look at Hawke's face, but really, it was mostly beard.

"There was also that thing you said to him," he mused, "Is there some grand explanation I'm missing?"

Before answering, Isabela waited until she'd moved enough away from Hawke's healing grasp to see his face.

"It's the worst you could ever think of." she responded, with certainty. If there was music, a drumroll would have been fitting here.

Hawke understood immediately. "Wait…"

He looked flummoxed. Maybe he wasn't _that_ quick to grasp it.

"Feel how awful it is," Isabela instructed, "and pour in half a dozen flasks of torment and anguish."

Hawke expression flashed with something between understanding and disbelief, "No."

So they were going to play that game? They understood each other well enough to understand extra layers of meaning underneath the surface reaction, and Isabela knew from this one word that Hawke had put the pieces together… he just didn't quite like what he was hearing.

"Yes," Isabela countered, "I am quite _adamant_ about it, actually. He told me with those big pouty eyes."

Hawke appeared panicked now, probably not from the pun that she wasn't sorry for, but likely because it was now partly obvious what had driven Carver's change in attitude. His growl was invidious.

"NO!"

"Really, you're giving a whole new definition to denial, pretty man," Isabela said with a cheeky grin, "That's your only intelligible reaction?"

"I _thought_ so." Hawke said, with a strained dread in his tone. "I guessed but… Maker, it makes me hate him more!"

"Maybe that's good he won't die by your strangling. Are celebrating or dying inside that he's gone?" Isabela said, now angry. Couldn't they even get along in absence?

Apparently still irritated, Hawke kicked his feet against the ground and growled.

Isabela crawled closer to Hawke again and closed her eyes. She had to agree. It was all kind of depressing. It wasn't fair that Carver supposedly was going to be able to manage his feelings somehow. She wasn't sure how to, besides drinking and sex, but she doubted Hawke wanted any of those right now – and there was no alcohol anywhere.

"What did you say to him?" Garret mentioned finally, raising his head from the tantrum.

"The usual," Isabela said, "That feelings are stupid and we should all move on with our lives."

It was the condensed version, but oh well. If only she could have a threesome with both of them to make up their differences…._that_ would be interesting. Hm, but perhaps that would be too strange for those men. She doubted the Venatori the others were fighting right now cared about that kind of cross contamination. They did the whole selective breeding thing in Tevinter.

Oh, relationships.

* * *

Cole didn't know if he was relieved or not to be back at the fortress they'd named Arla. The word felt disingenuous. The walls, floor and people felt wrong. Nothing was the way it was supposed to be. It was too dark, heavy and loud. The screams and the despair of those at Redcliffe Castle clung to him like weeds - still there no matter how often he pushed them away. A sensation of confusion and disarray had struck the spirit shortly after departing on the back of Eimear's horse.

Now he was being carried by Eimear. Despite her body being taken over by the red like those in the Castle, her sadness was not sucking the life from her. There was stability about her feelings. They did not weaken or flounder. As her hope and love flourished, her power grew with it.

The voices got louder still, overwhelmingly. Judging by the nudge, Eimear was attempting to communicate with him.

"Little Spirit, please awaken." Her voice was soft and comforting, "Commander Cullen has a moment to speak with you."

"Speaking…" Cole murmured, trying to open his eyes. The light of Arla, even if it wasn't so bright, was assailing. "The Commander… yes, he has a lot in his head, a lot of heartache… how can heartache be in a head? It is in the chest. The soul is where his heart aches… no, that can't be right. Which one is it?"

A hand rest of Cole shoulder and he jumped, but it was enough that he turned around. Cullen was peering at him, somewhere between curious, cautious or impatient.

"Eimear told me you had a lot of information to relay." He said slowly, "are you able to do that now?"

Cole tried to remember what he was supposed to be doing. "Yes, there were so many stories and so much pain. Sorrow so deep like knives and I couldn't help. I couldn't bandage the blood of their pasts. It split everywhere, all over, in every crack."

Perhaps not understanding the words, Cullen ignored him, "And you really have no idea why he started getting this way after _leaving_ the Castle? I'm somewhat perplexed he did not break down while inside of it. Though Maker's breath it is fortunate he didn't."

"Sometimes nightmares do not come immediately." Eimear said, tentatively. She ran a hand down Cole's back. "I thought you would understand that. He communicated me some of it. I can recount what I remember and you can verify it with Cole when he is able. For now he needs something to ground him."

"How can you talk about _grounding_ him?" Cullen uttered, incredulous, "He is a spirit. The entire point is that he is somewhere else in the non-physical plane." He practically laughed, "_Grounding_, indeed."

Eimear's hand stopped in the middle of Cole's back. "Can you not see he is distressed?"

"Yes." Cullen said, tired. His frustration hurt physically, like a sharp knife, "but I hardly have time to wait for allies to 'come down' from their troubled minds. Really, you are treating him like a child. By all means I understand the sentiment, but it does not seem to be helping."

"That does not mean it is right to abandon the task," Eimear asserted, with a hint of firmness, "do you have any suggestions? Don't you have any kindness?"

"I don't know. I lack the slightest idea how to comfort a spirit." Cullen sounded slightly irritated now. Like a barrier, the man's essence warped into a sticky, thick sludge of ocean blue.

Cole didn't understand why the Commander was so angry. Yes, he was hurting but it wasn't stable like Eimear's was. Cullen's heart was breaking apart like the Queen's, getting ever darker.

The images of that dungeon flashed past his head and the spirit started to shake.

"Little dove." Eimear said softly. Her voice was like sunrays after rain, but it did not comfort Cole anymore. Neither did he speak anymore.

"What?"

The Inquisition's leader was still annoyed, but the _wall_ pulsed and thinned. Perhaps it was getting softer.

Cole flinched as Eimear leaned into the Commander's arms and he became pressed between them. It felt like the two were not quite holding the other close, but their bodies were leaning against each other, like two books held up by themselves alone on a shelf.

"Does _your _spirit need comforting?"

They were so delicate, her words almost dissipated into the air. Cole knew everybody needed soothing, but the tone of the voice was different here. It was…. like she wanted to take the Commander's pain away, maybe hold him and make his wall break.

Cullen let out a heavy sigh. The spirit listened to the ambience of Arla for a few moments, as his shaking lessened too, as though the stillness would help him hear.

"Is that really relevant right now?"

He didn't believe his own words. The Commander wanted to be reassured by her. His emotional wall thinned and chimed at a high frequency that shot through Cole's body. It was like metal that had been knocked by accident.

"When was the last time you slept peacefully?" Eimear inquired. Again, she was soft. No one was allowed to hear. This was their secret, a kindness that must be kept within walls and never shown to anyone.

Cullen chuckled. "It _feels_ like never, though it has been worse lately. The nightmares urge me… they make me wish to avoid sleeping altogether."

"My older sisters and I used to stay close to help each other sleep. We pretended the blankets were like a barricade. Each one of us kept it standing." Eimear said. "Together the nightmares would be replaced by pleasant dreams."

Right now, the conversation with the Archer and the Commander was surrounded by pillows and blankets, for it was private. Even though Cole was there, the two adults pretended he wasn't. It was like the spirit was in his invisible form.

"Are you trying to say…" Cullen went quiet for a second. "Is that something you want?"

Cole felt himself get pressed closer between them. He should turn transparent, yes, that was obvious, it could make them closer, but he liked feeling them against him, sensing their _feelings_. They were warm compared to all the other souls.

"I am willing to try anything and everything. For the sake of the Inquisition - Cole, me and you."

It was both true and an excuse. Cole enjoyed the warmth of the woman. She was patient and understanding, but she liked being close to the Commander too.

"Like a curious surrogate family." Cullen concluded, awkwardly.

_He_ was not making excuses.

"Yes," Eimear said, "Or I can pretend it is a real one."

Was Cole like their child? 'Little spirit' is what the archer had said?

The Commander's breath abated. His next whisper was closer to Eimear's ear. "Pretending sounds… like it may subdue me."

His walls had gone and there was a very faint lightness remaining, bogged down by the grey, the dawn.

They were not making excuses anymore. This was their reason. Softness was their desire, to help with the nightmares, a wish Cole shared.

Cole was able to relax in the Commander's bed. The spirit slept in front of Eimear and she was held by Cullen. There were only brief conversations broken by silence. How was Redcliffe Castle? How was Josephine? How was everybody else? Were there any injuries? Was the Breach still dormant? Had Cullen been eating properly? Was he keeping hydrated? Did he miss sleeping? Did _she_? The words were nearly whispers, like secrets, even within a room that no one else would enter.

Their tenderness mollified the spirit, and the warmth chased away the horrors of their current circumstances. The darkness swirled and flew to other parts of the room, like dust or leaves on the breeze. He left once the Commander and Eimear had fallen asleep.

* * *

Erimond cleared his throat. "_Excuse me_."

Carver would have rolled his eyes if he wasn't so tired. The journey back to Redlcliffe castle had been one of the oddest experiences of his life. It might have borne resemblance to the Gallows if they had travelled on a boat, or the reserves if he was on horseback, but there hadn't even been a stallion for him to ride. Instead he'd been squished on the back of a carriage and asked to mind luggage, crates of lyrium impossible to open without a hammer, and the bits and pieces of tents. At least he wasn't forced to talk to anyone, but still, it was hardly entertaining. The space was too small and it ached his joints and tested his patience far more.

Now in the warm interior of one of the Castle rooms, the supposed Red Templar General was busy looking over some pieces of paper with the slumped, fatigued posture of a person who had been doing this for hours already.

He couldn't be that old, but he had features of a man over a decade older considering the thinning hair, receding hairline and slightly necrotic nails.

"Sorry." The General said, with derision, "I didn't hear you over your imperious whinging." He spotted Carver, "Who's this lad?"

"He was with the Inquisition." Erimond sounded extremely proud of himself, "Until with my aid he agreed to join the Red Templars on the condition he does not join the front lines."

The scowl on Carver's face intensified. '_Aid'_? With what? Being here had been a decision he'd made entirely on his own. All Erimond had done was make a leading comment. Perhaps he wanted to compensate for something.

"Uh huh." The General didn't look like he was listening. He observed Carver curiously. "That's not new. And why are you still loitering and taking up space, Erimond? Don't you have... a little pastime called _work_ that your soul longs for?"

Carver didn't think the General liked Erimond very much.

"I have plenty to do, Ser Samson," The mage said snootily, as though this whole conversation was a waste of time, "While I'm here I would like to entertain your thoughts with the results of Adamant Fortress ritual."

"Go ahead."

Carver listened carefully. Walking to the office, Erimond had not said a word. He had talked to himself and counted tasks he had to complete with his fingers, and complaining he didn't have a note book to write it all in.

"The Inquisition broke through, let's be honest, a pathetic attempt, but their intrusion did not succeed," Erimond reported, "However, they did convince Clarel to turn against me, and disrupted the whole ordeal. It was incredibly annoying, no… _vexing_. The dragon obliterated any Grey Warden allies they had turned, including Clarel, and most of their forces went down holding off the beast. According to my calculations, the sad number who evaded it will not survive the journey back to camp."

"They… retreated, you mean?" Samson clarified.

"Yes, indeed." Erimond said, "All in all, the objective was not met, but the Inquisition's allies were disrupted."

Carver tried not to show dissent upon hearing this information, for fear of retribution. He prayed to the Maker that Isabela, Alistair and Garret had escaped.

"Corypheus won't be happy about that." Samson mused. He looked entertained by this notion.

"Hold your tongue," Erimond snapped, "I qualm you could do any better."

"Probably not," Samson admitted, "but I haven't messed up anything yet."

Erimond crossed his arms and glared, "I shall see what the Elder One wishes. There are worse fates. At least that Warden Commander bitch is ash. Ah yes," the next words were spiteful, "and Calpernia would like your next stock take of lyrium to be more thorough. She's immensely dissatisfied with your lack of attention to detail. There's been some faulty lyrium in past three crates that you haven't sent back and she's irritated you still paid the suppliers coin for those ones."

"What do you know?" Samson tested. He gathered the papers on his desk to the right. "I checked it fine. The faulty ones are still usable. I take them. They only upset my stomach a bit. I don't have much an appetite so it makes little difference."

"You should still return them to their source." Erimond recommended. "It's almost like…oh, is it only in this region of Thedas…. I wonder if you possess this elusive commodity named standards."

"I wonder if you're a snobbish prick all the time or just around me." Samson said, dipping the quill in the ink pot. His expression was lifeless and unamused.

"All a matter of opinion, Red Templar General," Erimond flicked a stray hair off one of his arms, "and in the eye of the beholder."

"I behold nothing when I look at you." Samson said, bluntly. This conversation, if not over, was close to it, "You're like dust to me. Go."

"I will." Erimond assured him, obviously not offended. "It would be reassuring to receive a thank you for my efforts finding you another helper."

"You'll get a thank you later." Samson said, more firmly, "When he's instated properly, and he proves himself to be less snooty than you."

Carver was too tired to input into the conversation. Could he ask Erimond about whether his brother and Isabela survived later?

"That is not difficult to achieve." Erimond said. He gave a near threatening glare in Carver's direction before departing, "Considering I am not pretentious. It is merely a cultural difference. Those of my upbringing speak in a tongue more formal than yours."

Carver again, might have disagreed, but had no opinions on anything right now.

"Formality can die at my feet." Samson said. He gave a small wave and said in a much more pleasant way, "I'll maybe join you for supper later."

It was as simple as that, but Erimond was gone. Maybe these men had conversations like this often. It was similar to Garret and Carver's interactions. Perhaps they weren't always at each other's throats.

Samson sat up straighter with some effort - his spine must be failing him – before looking over a new sheet of paper, "I'll fill this out for you."

Carver knew he could fill it out quicker, "I don't think that's…."

The General clearly disagreed, as he continued like he hadn't heard, "What's your name, kid?"

The Templar peered at Samson curiously. Was there any benefit to lying? What would happen to Garret if the enemy discovered he was related?

"Carver." He said, and decided on, "Amell."

Samson was slightly amused, "That's a familiar name," he wrote something down on the paper, "what was your last name?"

Was the General _trying_ to waste time? Disconcerted, Carver's impatience grew, "I just told you."

"No, you didn't." Samson's eyes, which had been calm a second ago, flashed with distrust. "You lied. Try again."

Carver's eyes widened. It was all he could do not to gape. How could Samson do that? How did he tell? Did he guess? The lie hadn't even been completely untruthful.

The General raised his eyebrows, uncaring, "Why do you think I wanted to fill this out for you? I don't want to waste good parchment and throw out four forms; like some lady did a few weeks ago with all the crap she put on it." he repeated, "What's your last name?"

Carver gritted his teeth together. He wished he could have avoided honesty for _once_, "Hawke."

This caught Samson's interest, "Oh yeah? You related to that Champion of Kirkwall at all?"

"He's my brother." Carver replied. He really hated how these conversations went. Now the General was going to say how impressive Garret's adventures were.

"I met him a few times, you know." Samson said, "Sometimes I even saw him in the street and I considered stalking his sorry behind, just to see how he'd react, what he was up to, or how long it would take 'im to notice. I didn't though. Wasn't worth it."

As completely inconsiderate and creepy this comment was, something else was attractive to Carver. There was not a single compliment, comparison or praise in that sentence.

The Templar approached the desk. This guy was weird but he didn't perceive Hawke the same everyone else had, which made him interesting, "What did Garret get involved with you for?"

"_Involved_. That's a funny word." Samson remarked with a grin, "Nothing much. As a night owl I didn't attract a lot of attention, except from specific _types_ of folk."

"Like who?"

"Like those who get their paperwork done without changing the subject too much." Samson looked down the page, probably seeing what the most important details were. "What is your work history?"

They filled it out, and Carver, despite temptation, figured there was no point deceiving. When it was done the General leaned forward on the desk and crossed his arms over, possibly smudging the ink.

"Right. You don't want to fight, that don't bother me. Why are you here then?" Samson inquired. He looked genuinely interested now.

Carver crossed his arms, "I was told you could teach me how to control what the red lyrium is doing to me."

The General leaned back in his chair and placed his arms behind his head, "It can be controlled to a striking degree, but training under my rules won't change everything. I can't fix your arm, mind you, training also won't completely stop it if it takes over your physical body. The lyrium thinks on its own, see. It has a purpose for every soldier. I won't interfere with that. It's pretty clever if one works with it and not against it, kind of like reading tides, but the trick is understanding when to let it take over and when to tame it. Sods, even smart ones, get it wrong all the time. If you learn the techniques properly, I can slow it down so much it is like it's stopped. Your mind is what you can control, and that's how you can greatly prevent the lyrium destroying you." He met Carvers eyes, and clearly he'd made this rant a thousand times, "Is that what you're after or not?"

Carver was mildly impressed. This explanation was completely transparent. It did not seem to be feeding into impossibilities. For Carver to get results he had to work hard, and even then it was not an infallible process. Like with regular Templar training, he suspected similar rules to emotional turmoil also applied.

He knew that his anger at his brother and his upset at Isabela was probably going to distract him a lot.  
"When you say my mind…" Carver said slowly, "What about my emotions? In the Gallows I learned to control it pretty well, but the red lyrium is far tougher to deter."

"Of course it is. That's why I exist," Samson said, like this was obvious, "You don't get power for nothing, lad. You got to match it with a sharp head. Your emotions can be tamed in a similar way."

"Right." Carver couldn't think of why this arrangement was terrible so far. "I hope to start training soon then."

It was more of a command.

Samson peered at one of the walls as though it held instructions, "Keldon is one of the trainers here. He's a giant red thing, can't miss 'im. I need to double check but I think he's got the next training for newcomers in a few days."

"Fine," Carver didn't care who trained him so long as it wasn't like Meredith. "Are there many newcomers?"

"They come and go all the time." Samson said, mildly. He shrugged. "I don't care. I'll find use for you. You made it here so you are smart enough. I could use some help with paperwork and that sort of piss. If Calpernia's annoyed at the lyrium batches you can check 'em with me. I'll show you how to send the suspect ones back."

Carver didn't think this sounded very difficult. He couldn't help feeling appreciative for being called smart.

"How many others here don't want to fight?"

"It's a bloody castle." Samson said with an extravagant wave of his arms. "There's plenty of work to do that isn't related to combat. The ones who come here just not wanting to die, well, they find their place sooner or later." The man somewhat smirked at this.

"What? You let anybody in?"

"No," Samson scoffed, "They gotta want to be useful. There's not that much space."

"What if people don't agree with what you're doing?"

"Only an issue if they're self-righteous pigs," Samson said, "Same with anything, ain't it? Even with… dunno… choices of favourite book. People can like their books, or you can have the odd prat who harasses to convince you their book is better than yours, or that your taste is depraved. Those shits get kicked out."

Carver thought this sounded strange. It didn't match what Commander Cullen had said about the ones captured in prisons. "I heard you have dungeons."

Samson screwed up his face in distaste, "That's the Venatori's ticket. I find the entire place repulsive. I rarely go down there. Too foul and soulless, but it has a place. I only don't want to be near it."

Respect wasn't a feeling Carver associated with his enemies, though there it was, swelling within. If the General despised the dungeons, he couldn't entirely lack a moral compass, "Why don't you stop it then?"

Samson sighed and crossed his arms. His patience had ended, "Shut up."

This arrangement might not be awful after all, at least for right now. That was the impression Carver got anyway. He only hoped that Isabela and Garret were alright. He was going to miss them.

No. He already did.


	26. Strings

_Sleep makes it better. _

Cole reminded himself of this whenever Cullen appeared stressed, which was, surprisingly, less than usual. The emotions cursed the Commander with less poison, but he was still hurting. Apparently it might never disappear. Heaviness did not sharpen his features from anger, nor did the candlelight from his desk morph him into a man much older, even as he swivelled his wrist from the strain of writing notes.

"Thank you for sharing, Cole. I – uh – appreciate how trying explaining that must have been," Cullen said evenly. His eyes fell to Eimear. "I suppose you were right after all, Eimear. Patience was not a futile endeavour."

"It rarely is," Eimear said, with a fond smile, "not when emotional wounds require allaying."

"Yes." Cullen sighed. For a fugacious moment, he smiled too. "It does put a few of our other operations in jeopardy, but… what is it about everybody staying in Val Royeaux? Maker, it is too late to send word to Leliana's spies. Harding's team will return soon…"

"Too late for what?" Eimear inquired.

Cole refrained from saying so, but it was Eimear who had made this possible. His memories of the Castle were clouded and murky, but what mattered was that King Alistair understood that the Queen didn't want him to fight anymore. And that his mother sent him her well wishes.

_There was something else_, he thought, trying to pull the memories back, but he was forgetting. Darkness had an influence that overcame kindness in powerful enough quantities.

He couldn't forget.

_It was important,_ Cole riled himself, but the hate and despair were a whirlpool making a treasure impossible to retrieve.

"I don't know anymore," Cullen moped, and Cole focused on the conversation instead. The kindness she emanated made it better, made the Commander softer, Eimear resilient, and Cole safer. The three had slept in the Commander's bed for a week now. It became rote as crucial and unquestionable as the couple eating. When their nightmares were less, so was Cole's. Eimear also kept the Commander company and did odd jobs to make his day easier, like retrieve water, coffee or rub his shoulders.

_They are waiting for the King to return too,_ Cole observed, _and if I share what the Grand Enchanter wanted, he might understand._

Tension immobilized Cole, one limb at a time. Something about telling felt _wrong_, like it wasn't allowed, but what? If only he could remember!

* * *

Arla became busier when Scout Harding and her team arrived back from Val Royeaux days later. Cole felt the presence of more allies thicken the air with their emotions, though he rested by Eimear to remain staid.

The door squeaked open.

"Excuse me, Commander," Josephine began. Her clipboard had five pieces of paper haphazardly clipped to it. "Seekers Zoe, Phillipa and Templars of the White Spire – Alphonse and Noah. I believe you are acquainted with the women, in any case." She paused. "Shall I retrieve some refreshments, perhaps?"

Unbeknownst to everyone else as he was invisible, Cole raised his head from near the bookshelf, as Eimear did the same with papers she was organizing into files. Two men and ladies entered the office, perhaps the same age as the Commander, and they knew him, yes, a little, by the familiarity in their eyes. In dirtied trousers and shirts, they looked careworn by the journey.

The guests hardly glanced at each other. They wanted to talk, and only that.

"No, that is quite fine, thank you, Ambassador," Cullen said.

"Would you like me to stay?" Josephine asked, tentative.

_There are no answers,_ Cole remarked, _that is why she is nervous. The Ambassador is confused about Eimear and the Commander. She doesn't know what it means or why it is there. _

Josephine had a lot of thoughts, concerns that Cole did not share. Mystery was not part of the couple's interactions. It was simply _kindness_.

"I would like you to stay," the one named Zoe said, "Please, Josephine."

_She is beautiful, and it gets her in trouble. _Cole thought it as straightforwardly as reading it from her, like it was part of her, _she loves it but she hates it, she… _

Even though the brunette sounded calm and polite, her resonance was murky and clouded. The loveliness of her smile had sharpness now.

_She is like a harp that goads fingers. _

"Yes, you must," Phillipa agreed, "your input would be valuable."

This one's colours were softer, like her voice, a real harp, a soothing instrument, perfecting a song of sadness.

"Goodness. You are far too kind." Josephine blushed. "I assure you it is not nearly as…."

"Your modesty only makes you more suitable for the conversation," Alphonse assured her.

That seemed to quieten Josephine. She nodded in gratitude, but still held a residue of nervousness.

This tall man had a bond with the Seeker with the green eyes. His soul was sturdy like a barricade.

Ser Noah approached the desk first.

"How are you, Commander?"

"Not too terribly. Surprisingly…" Cullen scratched his head, confused as to why this was. "Sweet Maker… Eimear, may you find some chairs? I think they were borrowed for Wicked Grace the other night."

"I won't be long," Eimear said.

No one else spoke until the door closed.

Alphonse laughed mildly, "Is that woman your handmaiden?"

"Don't be so ridiculous," Cullen scoffed, although Josephine smiled in agreement. "She's merely showing me thoughtfulness. I have not been…err…. _well_."

"I knew it!" Phillipa said. It was a whisper, but she also looked as though she wasn't supposed to have said that. "I mean, yes, we have all been tired."

"It's not fair the Commander should have to do everything himself," Noah said.

"Hm, yeah, poor you," Zoe said briskly. No doubt, she wasn't interested. "We can mope about that later. I have something more important I'd like to discuss with you, Cullen."

By how her arms moved one way and then stopped she resisted the temptation to cross her arms.

Cullen flinched.

"Good day to you as well."

By the sarcasm, he was affronted by the disrespect.

"Zoe darling," Alphonse leaned towards Zoe, "there's no need to be so rude."

Zoe took a deep breath. "You're right. There isn't. My mistake." She smiled tautly, like her face was made of iron. "How's being sick going?"

The unhappiness couldn't be removed. Despite efforts, her tone remained snappish.

Noah's head fall into his palm, while Phillipa looked uncomfortable. Zoe's feelings were not stable like Eimear's. They swirled, like the emotions did not know where they were meant to belong, and by the expressions of discomfort from the others, the rage was either predicted or hoping to be avoided.

"I…"

Cullen's expression went blank, as empty as his mind. Maybe he was a little afraid of this woman, "What has gotten into you?"

These two were friends, and something was atypical about her anger. Cole shuddered. Everyone talked like they breathed poison. Phillipa and Noah seemed to understand, but not Cullen. Josephine and Alphonse were standing stoic, as though the room was silent.

Zoe crossed her arms. "Really? I'm going to wait for you to figure out what's upset me?"

With every word, her voice became louder, but the Commander remained perplexed.

"I truly have no idea."

Alphonse squeezed Zoe's arm, trying to tell her to be kind, and the Seeker took another deep breath. Her feelings were smoke, clouded and amorphous. Cole moved closer to Eimear's side, hoping to evade the emotions that reminded him of the Castle.

The woman waited for a few moments until the smoke mitigated.

"Maybe you can explain why you neglected to mention who is leading the Red Templars on this side of the equator in your letter contacting us."

The words, despite attempts to subdue them, were like lightning. It attenuated the room into silence. Cole hadn't been here when the letter was written, he was sure, but it must have been important.

Zoe's eyes pierced into Cullen's with distrust and impatience, and the Commander was as stony faced as before.

The stillness, like the brewing of clouds before a storm, could have destroyed the room if it held physical form. Every other pair of eyes was either on Zoe or Cullen. Josephine's gaze was the only one that moved, as though trying and not achieving to read the situation.

Cole considered leaving, it was so awful, but the door creaked open. Eimear talentedly balanced five chairs in her hands.

Still, no one said a word.

Maybe because it was easier to move than to stand within this tension, Josephine, Phillipa and Noah paced away to help arranging these seats, with whispers of disjointed conversation.

Alphonse decided to watch these chairs as they were planted in a line, though Zoe and Cullen _still_ did not look away from each other. They were statues, frozen.

"I… must have forgotten," Cullen said finally, "It slipped my mind."

Was it a truth? A lie? Cole felt too afraid to tell, and that frightened him more.

Zoe uncrossed her arms. Representing her thoughts, her fingers danced in the air, "Normally I'd believe you because you're a nice person, but I don't because one thing you've never been is disorganized."

"I told you," Cullen said, biting a threat between his teeth, "I haven't been well. I haven't been thinking with clarity. Josephine and I are very overworked."

"Yes, but the detail you _forgot_ to mention was VERY important," Zoe's admonished, the volume augmenting still. She was struggling not to explode in anger.

The chairs adjusted to form a semi-circle around the desk, and everyone sat, all gazes avoiding theirs, as if no one wanted to intervene on the conversation.

Cullen frowned, "Getting in contact with you was more pressing. It took precedence over…."

"That's the point!" Zoe snapped. She refused to sit down. "You did it ON PURPOSE, Cullen! You decided telling your friends were too much of a risk!"

"It is not clear why you did so," Alphonse said. He tugged on Zoe's dress, urging her to sit. "Yet it was rather foolish, if it was an accident."

Zoe finally plonked down on the chair, though she crossed one leg over the other, furious.

Cullen, guilt stricken, peered at one face to another, and sunk his elbows onto the desk.

"I don't know what I was thinking anymore."

"Josephine wrote that letter, NOT you," Zoe chastised, "you had to _tell her_ what to write. It gave you _time_ to think. She would have checked with you…" the conclusion seemed obvious to her. "You deliberately left it out. I want to know why."

Cullen groaned and let his head fall onto the desk. Silence fell once again.

"Are you certain I am necessary in this exchange?" Josephine repeated.

Immediately, Phillipa and Noah grabbed her arms, probably to plant her to the seat.

"Yes," the blonde assured Josephine, almost through gritted teeth, "you are very important."

"Especially so," Noah agreed.

"V-very well." Josephine tried to sit up straighter. "I don't understand but I will pretend I have some relevance to the uh, discussion."

"It is appreciated, dear lady," Alphonse assured her.

Zoe's glare at those in the other chairs was nothing short of demeaning.

"Why are you getting so bad-tempered over this?" the Commander asked finally.

Phillipa noticeably flinched. She looked afraid. That was not the right question to ask. No, it was the entirely wrong question.

"Why are you changing the subject?" Zoe inquired.

Slowly, her rage was changing to sassiness instead.

Silence again.

"Answer the question, Cullen."

The Commander groaned.

"Really, I don't see why this conversation is necessary. I was only taking a precaution. You never fully explained to me the details of how Samson fit into your life, so I err-ed on the side of caution and left the subject alone."

It was the first time _his_ name had been mentioned. Was it the same as General Samson… the one who had offered Cole his soup?

The spirit tried not think about that place.

"Zoe darling," Alphonse jumped in before she could retaliate, "a liar, yes, but not one worth condemning. Cullen only did not want to upset you."

Zoe stamped her feet on the ground once and covered her face in her hands. Alphonse placed a hand on her back. When the Seeker looked back up at Cullen again, she was completely dumbfounded.

"I can't believe you," she seethed.

It was impossible to tell if she was more despairing or fuming. Like trying to catch something out of reach, she waved out her arms. "Do you know HOW _STUPID_ YOU SOUND?"

"I think it is time for a moment of respite," Josephine interjected with the balance of matronly and sternness that only she could, "although… perhaps coffee is not the most appropriate beverage for such heightened emotions?"

"I will make tea!" Phillipa volunteered, springing to her feet.

"What will you have?" Noah addressed the group.

"_Tea_…" Cullen said the word darkly, as if they were suggesting acid, "perhaps water will suffice. I worry that with something hotter I might throw it in poor Zoe's face… _by accident_."

The words were said with such malice the Commander probably could truly hurt the Seeker. It was scary. This wasn't supposed to happen. The archer was meant to keep Cullen under control.

"Little dove…" Eimear ran a finger down Cullen's arm. "Stop. You're supposed to be friends."

"They _are_ friends," Alphonse affirmed, barely phased by the uproar, "Zoe is only very angry."

"How do you manage it?" Cullen asked Alphonse, fairly seriously, but his voice had left over derisiveness.

"Quite easily," the Templar admitted, "I am excessively accustomed to anger in my family life and culture. I have learned to endure it. And I know how to instruct and scold this droll mademoiselle when the situation requires it."

Zoe tugged Alphonse's arm, perhaps to tell him to be quiet, but had hid her face in her hands again.

"Any tea is fine. Something with flowers or citrus if it exists here."

"A fine choice, sister," Phillipa said.

With that, those who had decided to retrieve tea had left. The room was quiet again, though this time the tension was not so apparent.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Zoe," Cullen said after a while.

Zoe held up a hand to signal she had no desire for conversation.

"How are your family in these times?" Eimear probed Alphonse, "are they safe?"

"I am aware this sounds cruel, but I don't care," he answered, "my parents were hideous to me. My extended family are less so, so they are more like my real parents. They have been moving to others who hold the Langois name. I last heard from them a month ago."

"How garish," Eimear said.

There was silence then, one not broken until the others returned with tea. Cullen and Zoe sipped theirs solemnly, like it was part of some grotesque blood magic ritual.

"Are the two of you prepared to discuss the… topic, calmly?" Josephine verified. Somehow, this didn't sound condescending.

The two nodded.

Cullen drank a quarter of his water before putting it down and addressing Zoe.

"You… think that trying not to upset you is _stupid_?"

By the tone, he was hurt by the assumption.

Zoe held the mug protectively between her fingers. "You are so much like Samson it is near laughable."

A sharp zap coursed through the room.

"Funny? How could it be _funny_? And I am not." Cullen was disbelieving. "I have no idea how you drew that comparison. There is nothing further from the truth."

"Hiding because you 'don't want to upset me'," Zoe said. The hint of snark was barely there now. "That's such a Samson thing to do."

By the expression, Cullen hated this answer, so he drank more water instead of talking. Zoe didn't touch her tea. Neither of them liked talking about the man who sent Red Templars to Haven. He was a torrent within them, only destroying, never healing. But how were these people pulled together, if Samson was a fissure they threatened to fall into?

"I doubt the context is identical," the Commander said, "more importantly, I've apologized. What more would you like me to say?"

"I am frustrated you kept information from me in the first place," Zoe said, exasperated, "I get not wanting to upset me but I would have found out anyway. I _did_. I would have preferred to hear it from you, rather than tossing around this rumour in my head for months. How do you think that feels? "

"I don't know," Cullen replied, still somewhat defensive, "How do you think it feels to have your old headquarters ambushed by him and his allies?"

Phillipa's hands flew to her mouth, "You _saw_ him?!"

"From a distance," Cullen acknowledged, picking the memory apart, "but yes. He looked utterly menacing."

Zoe didn't react visibly. Did the description not matter to her?

"How _did_ it feel?"

The Commander practically glared at the Seeker. "I was struck with such apoplexy that I wanted to murder him on the spot."

Zoe sipped at her drink then. "Do you still want to kill him?"

It was like they were discussing a kindly topic, but that couldn't have been further from the truth. Their emotions were not overflowing or sweltering.

"I'd say so, yes," Cullen said, "But I am at a loss of when I'll receive a decent opportunity to do so. He is at Redcliffe Castle last we heard, and apparently he wants to _talk_ to me." He laughed scathingly. "He thinks I am that stupid. I am not so foolish to believe it will be a simple chat. More than likely, he'll slice me to pieces or torture me."

The woman appeared politely curious, "How do you know that?"

Cole was the one who had told Cullen, so he would explain. The spirit appeared before the Commander could mention this.

Phillipa gasped in shock.

"Oh, there he is," Cullen said, not caring, "a spirit of the White Spire, apparently – of all places."

"The General was not lying," Cole explained, "Even if very dark, and full of secrets, he said he might help."

The Commander frowned, "You are mistaken, Cole. Samson's mind, and I imagine his definition for 'help', is warped compared to everyone else's. He does not think as you do."

The spirit remembered something else, "But he does. He hears the same noise, he senses the clamor…of o-others."

"What?" Cullen's face creased, like thinking the statement rubbish. "A human can't hear and experience the mental haze of other people. That's insanity."

"Is that so hard to believe?" Zoe said, suddenly avoiding Cullen's eye. "You said it yourself. His definitions for things are completely out-of-order."

The Commander faltered, "B-but… not like _that_. If it was true, which I doubt, why wouldn't he tell anyone? That's rather concerning."

"Would YOU tell anyone if you started hearing voices, Cullen?" Zoe demanded, meeting his gaze again.

"As a matter of fact, I have," Cullen said, somewhat proudly. His heart swelled with gratitude at that moment, "but it's only because I knew the person I spoke to understood what it was like." Zoe kept staring. "Anyway, why does it matter? The man deserves to die. Why did you want to know such a thing?"

"I want to kill him, that's why," Zoe said.

Cullen nearly choked on his water, shocked.

"_You_ want to kill him?"

_Perhaps the Seeker has not always been so angry,_ Cole thought.

"Yes." Her answer was definite. "Why are you making a face?"

"I guess…" the Commander was timid, "I suppose I truly have no idea about how you perceive him."

"No," Zoe acknowledged, "but it changes nothing. He needs to die for making so many suffer. How can we plan that?"

"We can't do it so straightforwardly," Cullen said, amazed, "our mission to Redcliffe Castle is to retrieve the prisoners who are there, nothing else. Managing Samson can come later. Maker knows I have no desire to talk to him. He is _impossible_ to speak to about anything important."

"Why does he need to die?" Phillipa interjected, "He was kind, but mislead. We used to be his friends. Perhaps, if there is any chance he can return to the person he was, we are the only ones who can do it. So I believe he is best captured."

"You are so hopeful, dear Phillipa," Alphonse praised, perhaps not seriously, "Zoe, Cullen is right. Samson will kill you if you try to go near him. Any violence toward him needs careful preparation."

"But…" Zoe began.

"Not this time, my dear," Alphonse said with finality.

"He's right. I don't think it is a good idea, even if there was a plan," Cullen said. He sounded at ease for the first time since they'd arrived. "Maker preserve you, Zoe, but you are too emotionally compromised. If anyone is going to kill that monster, it should be me."

Zoe's mouth was agape, "_Emotionally compromised_? You…" she almost jumped out of her chair and strangled him, "you're MENTALLY compromised!"

"Wonderful!" Cullen yelled, matching her fire with his, "perhaps we can work together!"

"You cannot kill Samson or enter any combat, Commander," Josephine urged him, "you are needed here."

"Why is every person arguing about who is permitted to murder one of their friends?" Noah chimed in, "That is unreasonable. I don't think friends should be involved with slaughtering each other at all."

"I agree," Phillipa concurred.

"Yes," Josephine appeared remorseful, "I have not told many this, but when I was a bard in Orlais, I once unknowingly murdered one of my friends. It was a terrible experience. It is not a fate I recommend, regardless of whether the intentions are defensible or not."

"What do you suggest, Ambassador?" Cullen said, exhausted.

"I propose that once Alistair and Hawke return from the Western approach that they, on the assumption they are unharmed, assist with generating ideas. Additionally Alistair, Eimear and I can finalise the plan for Redcliffe Castle and discuss what to do about the Red Templar General ourselves."

"But you know nothing about military tactics," Cullen interrupted.

"It is imperative that the plan about the Red Templar General is not created…" Josephine tried to find her manners, "by any parties that are partial to…"

Cullen sneered, "We are only _partial_ to killing him."

"It is not an impartial argument, none the less," Josephine finished, "once it is completed we will show you our ideas."

Across the room ran mutters and nods of agreement.

Zoe burst out, "Every moment he isn't dead it gives him more opportunity to mess everyone around!"

"Darling, everyone understands the gravity of the situation," Alphonse assured her, "what is making you so competitive? Imagine we had all the allies and power in the world … that it was impossible to lose. What additional satisfaction will you gain to be the one to kill him? Either of you?" he glanced at Cullen. He addressed Zoe again sadly, "I know I did not question you before, _ma biche_, but the threat is more real now. I fear for you and everyone, despite how skilled you are."

The Commander went limp in his chair. "Besides the satisfaction of knowing one more enemy is out of the way, and the power that comes with defeating another who deserves it, I… I honestly am not certain."

Zoe sighed. She scanned each face in the room, perhaps considering how similar her response would be to Cullen's. "Thank you Josephine, Cullen, mon chou…" she sighed. "I can think of more reasons why Samson should die by my hand than why he should stay alive. That probably sounds terrible. Maybe it is, but that's what I think. What do I gain? What does anyone gain from fighting in a war? It's not like we get any presents or happy memories. There isn't anything but duty, to the world, to the Maker, to ourselves, and knowing we did our best for all, and we were loyal." She finished the rest of her tea, put the mug on Cullen's desk and stood to her feet. "I will not go against my morals."

She left the room. Cole turned invisible and followed, ignoring the confused upheaval and discussion from behind him.

"Where is she going?" Cullen asked.

"Let her," Phillipa said.

He didn't know the answer to that question, but he wanted to find out.

* * *

Alphonse was not far behind.

"Zoe…"

The tone of voice was like he was conveying a paragraph of information into her head. It was special, just for her. With his height, and proportionally longer legs, he easily caught up to Zoe, and she held up a hand like raising a shield.

"I am DONE trying to justify my behaviour to others."

"You do not need to, my dear," Alphonse explained, slowing down, "they were only trying to help."

"Help…" Zoe's voice broke, "_Help_?"

It was irate, or perhaps filled with disappointment. Cole looked around. This was the bottom floor of the building where the library was. The walls always had nice pictures, and there were people ascending and descending the stairs, but the presence of the Seeker and Templar allured attention like performers of a play.

Zoe halted right in the center and spun around. Her eyes were filled with tears.

Cole realized as the Seeker refused a hug, as she denied all forms of affection, that she did not want help. And therefore, as Eimear liked to tell him, there was nothing he could do.

The spirit was about to walk back when another voice entered his ear.

"Zoe, did the meeting not go fairly?"

That Orlesian accent. Could it be?

He stepped to see who it was and wasn't sure how he felt. A woman with long black hair, adorned in a crimson tunic with the Chantry sunburst weaved with golden thread was leaning against a wall. She was the best dressed out of all those who had arrived so far.

"Evangeline…" Cole said the word before he could stop himself. He was quiet, she didn't hear or see him.

But someone else _did_ remember him.

The unseen spirit's eyes darted to the man next to her, older than Cullen's friends. The features, even different over the time spent apart, were unmistakable.

Rhys sighed, "Oh, not again."

"I want to cry in all its glory!" Zoe announced with a sniff, "Let me cry. Just let me."

Alphonse brought a fond hand to her face, "Cry, mon cherie, but please only wipe your nose on me a little. I won't look like a local if you do it too much."

That made Zoe chuckle.

Cole didn't know what he wanted to do more. Follow Zoe and figure out more about the General that the others hated, or stay with Rhys and Evangeline?

Unable to decide, he made himself visible.

Zoe nearly jumped from surprise, "Are you… foll…"

"If that's the same Cole I remember, then yes, he probably was following you. Really inconvenient, unfortunate quirk of his, I have to admit, but that's him," Rhys said with a smile. He looked down at Cole. "How did you get all the way here?"

"Ah, so you being friends with the Spire ghost was not a wild Noble's tale," Alphonse supposed, thoughtfully, "you finally surprise me with your middle aged wisdom."

"What?" Zoe demanded, confused.

Chatter approached, possibly others from the office.

Evangeline appeared a bit dazed - no doubt, trying to remember him.

"Yes, he… Cole?"

The colours around them were bright, like they were happy to see him, but… he didn't feel the same in return. Neither did Cole know immediately why he was upset. For a moment, he considered it.

The reluctance toward Rhys and Evangeline was driven by the same worry for Eimear or Cullen - fear… for their safety and lives.

"Why did you come here?" Cole demanded.

"I asked first. There's no need to play your question game so soon. This is a reunion!" Rhys moved closer, jovial.

"I came to help," Cole replied.

"Help with what?" Alphonse questioned.

Evangeline looked at Rhys, looking as confused as Zoe did.

"You will get used to that answer. It's his… reason for absolutely everything," Rhys said slowly, "Do you see, Cole? That's what we came here to do. We've drawn together by the same string."

"Shoelace," Alphonse corrected, "for this country is filthy, but well-worn and cherished, like shoes should be."

Rhys looked befuddled, "I don't think they'll be any shoes left in Thedas soon enough."

Zoe was caught between amusement and being overwhelmed by her sadness.

"Seeker Zoe and her friends gathered local allies after hearing of the Inquisition through Seeker Pentaghast when they visited Kirkwall – for the sole purpose of eventually bringing them to the Inquisition," Evangeline explained, "Loyalties were divided across the nation, and their faction was one of many. We… encountered them by chance."

"The real story goes I was an idiot and adventurous, saw some Red Templars and thought that…"

"Bon soir," Zoe stormed off at that, maybe at the mention of _Red Templars_, and Alphonse followed.

"….I saw some Red Templars and thought following them was a wonderful use of my time. And you wouldn't like the rest of the story, Cole," Rhys said with a smile.

"What… what are we to do?" Evangeline questioned, watching Zoe and Alphonse go.

Cole did too. His thoughts were expressed unimpeded.

"I'd like to be remembered. And to make the two of you smile like there is no hurt anywhere."

* * *

Rhys and Evangeline brought about mixed feelings inside him, conflicting ones, about whether interacting with them was truly right or not. Still, he sat, listened from his seat at the table and watched as Alphonse and Zoe crossed the dining hall to retrieve dinner, bowls in their hands, stoic.

"You seem scared, Cole – I mean, more than usual," Rhys corrected, taking a mouthful of stew.

"Are there troubles that plague you?" Evangeline inquired.

Cole pulled his eyes away from the Seeker and Templar on the other side of the room.

"Pain – of others, of the enemy, and the Inquisition. It is like a waterfall, and it crashes on me, it makes me cold and unable to move." Cole explained.

Evangeline appeared worried, and so did Rhys. The spirit did not want to worry them.

"Does a method exist to shield other's experiences from your own?" she asked.

"There might be," Rhys noted, thoughtfully, "or I really, really hope so."

Cole frowned. The smells of the food they were eating meant nothing. So much of life was wispy, like clouds, unable to comfort him.

Zoe and Alphonse departed to eat somewhere else. He couldn't help them either. Was this uselessness?

Even his friends, they…. could not help _him_.

_Perhaps these are tears,_ he thought, as he bit his lip, and looked down at the table.

Rhy's hand jumped to Cole's back, but he could not _feel_ it.

"What's the matter, Cole?"

"When it was before, _earlier_, years before in the prison – the dark place in the Spire – I _felt_ how cold the floor was, feeling the stone, how starvation hurt me, and dying… it is all fading. I don't remember. I don't know, I can't decide. What did dying feel like? I can't remember how it _felt_. Maybe…"

Maybe forever existing in a cell would be better than how he currently existed, being swallowed by other's pain.

"Cole – I don't think I have a full understanding of what you are trying to say," Rhys began, "but if Evangeline and I tried to discover if there was a way to make you… I don't know - experience less of this 'emotion waterfall' from those around you, would that help?"

"Do you think that would make you cheerier?" Evangeline added.

Cole peered at them, feeling weak and littler than ever. They were here to protect him, their eyes said so, but he didn't feel protected yet. Was there a way to make it better? Would it truly make a difference?

"I don't know," he answered, in a small voice.

"Can you think about it?" Rhys suggested.

Zoe and Alphonse were no longer in the room. Even if he couldn't help, he wanted to understand more about why they were here, and what hurt. Maybe that was helping too.

"Yes," he decided, and Cole slipped out of his chair, "I'm sorry, and grateful. Sorry and grateful. That is strange, yes, very odd… Goodnight."

Ignoring whatever their reaction was, the spirit became amorphous and glided away.

* * *

Cole entered the room he probably wasn't supposed to, the one that belonged to a couple he had only met today. Hopefully, he could find tenderness. He needed to search for the goodness in their hearts.

Their room had enough space to fit one person. The Seeker took off her dress so easily like it was nothing at all, merely something she was brushing from herself. She played with the dress with her toes, watching it, like it was a special dress. Maybe it held a memory. Maybe she wasn't happy. Her essence was still swirling, not the right way up or down, but it was trying to push together and fall into the right place.

Already in night clothes, Alphonse swirled water in his mouth.

"Ma biche…" he said calmly, "You're thinking again."

Zoe smiled. "So are you."

Alphonse swallowed. "I only wish there was something to take the lyrium out of my breath, if only to pretend I am not a slave to its whims. I do not care that it makes me powerful."

Did this Templar want to withdraw from lyrium too? But he was like the Commander, he couldn't.

The Seeker found another piece of clothing to wear.

"I care."

She pulled out clothes and let them sprawl out onto the floor.

"You shouldn't blame yourself."

"Neither should you," replied Alphonse.

Were they still talking about the lyrium?

"When the fighting isn't as bad…" Zoe began.

"When will that be?"

Zoe gathered the clothes in her hands and they turned into fists.

"When he dies."

She picked up a dress, curiously.

"Samson is not the only enemy," Alphonse stated, solemnly.

"Yeah," Zoe agreed, still unable to choose what to wear. She shivered. "But he's the only one that matters to me."

Alphonse sighed, and silence followed.

"Dear, why are you worrying about your clothes?"

Zoe pushed them away, suddenly angry, "I don't know."

Alphonse smiled. "You do not need them to sleep."

"Maybe I actually _want_ to sleep." Zoe said, more firmly.

There was another pause.

"You're still thinking." Alphonse pointed out again.

"I don't want to."

"Then come here," Alphonse advised her, "I will force those thoughts out of your voluminous brain."

Zoe stood to her feet and climbed into the bed. Others walked naked like it was a shadow, a sinister being to be shunned, a demon, but she was confident. The Seeker had no fear like this.

Alphonse pushed the hair out of her eyes.

"You have such worry in your eyes, mon cherie."

"I let them burn up inside just for you," Zoe said, with a grim smile, "so you can force them out."

His next words were worried:

"Are you well?"

"I like that we're alone." Zoe murmured.

Alphonse tapped his knuckles on the wall. "Aie. That will hurt anyone who has any objections."

Despite himself, Cole stepped to the other side of the bed and sat down. He waited until they started to blend their bodies together, creating waves with the sheets, and almost falling off the small bed as they found their balance. It was not dissimilar to Evangeline and Rhys years ago, or really, any couple in the Spire he used to watch. It held no darkness for him, only questions. If there was a means to block out the feelings of others, would the happiness disappear too? In becoming less of _himself_, would he be more human?

As Cole observed muscles tense and relax in quickening intervals, he wondered what those sensations _felt_ like. Was it like running very fast, or maybe jumping? The sweat made it seem that way. But then what was it that made them whisper to each other, or hold each other very close or moan? If it was love, then did Cole know love as he thought? If it was lust, then what was so interesting about it? Was any of it painful? One day, would he understand all of this, with Evangeline and Rhy's help?

Zoe's head rocked forward and she leaned against the jagged stone of the wall, gasping for breath. It was more than movement, and sounds. It was a language. The phonetic tones meant something different. It was something he had noticed before, but not something he truly wanted to understand.

"I…" she took in a sharp intake of breath, like there was no oxygen in the room, "I… don't deserve anything."

Alphonse ran one hand down the small of her back and traced the shape of her curves, "You deserve no less than I, ma biche."

The bed started to move again, in time to their movements, and one of the sheets started to slip off one side, but neither cared. Zoe's emotions were still clouded, but here, the parts that were not clouded shone ever brighter. Her lover was a fortification that encased all of this emotion and kept it safe.

As Zoe muttered and held back more obsequious sounds, Cole thought more. If he could feel like a person, would love make him weak, like it did Cullen and the Herald?

"I'm so sorry," she muttered.

Would it make him strong, give him reason to keep going, like Queen Anora?

Alphonse grabbed hold of her hips and moved them in such a way that Zoe shook and cried out within a few chaotic seconds.

The couple slowly laid down, Alphonse pulled back the sheet on the floor and they struggled not to fall off the small bed.

"What about you?" Zoe wondered, moving about still.

"I can take care of myself," Alphonse said, with a small smile, "and I forgave you a long time ago." He kissed her nose. "Sleep."

…Or would it neither make a person stronger or weaker, but simply help them fall asleep peacefully, like Zoe?

* * *

_Author's Notes:_ Thanks to my lovely beta, Flaminea! This chapter, if it isn't already obvious, included characters from Asunder, they belong to David Gaider. I hope I did them justice.

My OC's were fun to write, so I hope you like them too.

If there's something you'd like to see more of, let me know!

Translations:

Ma biche = my doe.

Mon chou = my pastry (or cabbage).

Aie = ouch.


	27. Guilt

With the Breach dormant, everything looked grey, as if constantly in overcast. Training near a wall, Carver evaded fragments of stone that collapsed from above. Then he remembered the very technique he was learning could shatter it. Twisting his wrist uncomfortably a burst of light broke the shard in two.

The other half hit his head.

Jaw tensed, he hoped, prayed not many others had seen.

Shards of stone flew across the courtyard like glass. Keldon, his trainer, loomed over him like a building. Repeating the truth that he had once been a man made no difference to believing it. He just… looked like a half translucent _golem_. "Do you think the Castle looks more elegant toppled over?"

Keldon's grumbling had taken a lot of getting used to. At first, Carver needed another recruit to translate what was being said. Now, he had the gist of it. It did not lessen the task of concentrating whenever the trainer opened his jaw.

"Practice the basic smite again, with stepping," Keldon ordered, and he pointed to the far left of the line, "Next to Margret."

"Yes, ser."

Without question, Carver marched past the other recruits. It felt strangely at home here in the Castle, not because he liked Keldon, but all the other men and women out here held benignity. Only two others in the line donned Templar armour and he didn't recognize them. Everyone else looked battered, and their armour was of lower quality metals which would be easy to slice through.

Strangely enough, and he couldn't figure out why, the ivory of Margret's hair and snow skin looked familiar.

Losing words, he said blankly, "How's…. um…. the training… and stepping?"

The woman couldn't be too far from his age range. She banged her warped shield against his and continued to pivot, take a few steps forward and back. Her armour was silver, but the metal was distorted over her forearms and shoulders, like hot wax. For a moment he considered what varieties of monsters or magic could have caused that pattern.

"Well, how are you?" Margret offered.

"TRAIN!" Keldon roared, "THERE'S A REASON IT'S CALLED THAT. NOT CHATTING UP TIME."

Carver cringed involuntarily at the tumult. The trainer's voice could have torn up the tiles of the courtyard. "YES, SER!"

So he mimicked Margret's stepping, her movements, aiming for precision. She seemed quite adept, so it was odd she was this far down the line.

A few seconds after her, a burst of red bounced erratically off the stones, just as it had in the Western Approach. Margret's smite was narrow, and struck exactly at the spot it was supposed to, unlike his.

She was _good_ at it.

Knowing it wasn't appropriate to speak, Carver waited until Keldon had strolled past him, made a disapproving grunt at his technique, and tried to catch Margret's eyes. To his bewilderment, they were _purple_. Like with the other recruits here, he wasn't sure how much red lyrium each person had consumed.

When she finally glanced over at him, he mouthed to the best of his ability:

_How?_

As in, _how in the Maker's name did you do that?_

Margret nodded, but didn't respond. Carver was convinced she was ignoring him until she demonstrated a small smite, and then a larger one in quick succession.

Glancing here and there, Carver copied. One small smite –this one was fine– and then a bigger one, which failed.

_What am I supposed to do?!_ He tried to gesture, angrily.

Margret didn't answer. He didn't receive an answer to her distance until later that evening.

* * *

"Only one slice of bread allowed for new ones," a fully-fledged Red Templar complained, as Carver picked up another slice with the servers.

"I know," Carver lied, dropping the bread in the basket. He picked up his bowl of soup, irritated that the fully fledged Red Templars took up to seven. Having no desire to be seated with these monsters, Carver squashed up against a bookshelf and ate his silently. To his surprise, when Samson strolled past, he stopped, looking bewildered.

"Is it fun down there?" he asked.

Undecided if insulting the Castle would get him kicked out, Carver didn't reply honestly, "More fun than being around people."

"Huh?"

Confused, Samson glanced over at the many full tables. "There's a lass from the Gallows here," he begun. "Margitte – you didn't meet her?"

With the stress of the past few years, he'd largely forgotten those from the Gallows, but Margitte… was a tad familiar. If he recalled correctly, she had once assisted another Templar with a coin situation, and had a reputation for being plain.

"Can you point her out to me?" Carver requested.

"Where the blighted hell is she?" Samson muttered to himself, as he glanced over the many heads. He pointed a gnarled finger, "Swear she grew up in the Frostback Mountains. Pale…"

The Templar, confused, stood up and tried to identify the location Samson was suggesting.

Suddenly, it clicked together. The one he'd trained next to hadn't been a complete stranger, after all.

"Keldon called her Margret."

"You've got shit ears, haven't you?"

"No," Carver protested, defiant, "I didn't mishear."

"Yeah, you did," Samson said, "Keldon's memory is exceptional. He wouldn't make a mistake like that." He raised an eyebrow. "You don't want to make friends?"

With Margitte, like he was _allowed_ to? This struck Carver as self-defeatist, as they were all going to die here anyway.

"Nnneuggh…" Carver grumbled, hoping it was an ambiguous sound.

_No,_ he thought, annoyed_, this Castle is just somewhere I have to be, not wanted to be. I won't enjoy it, ever. Never. Friends will distract me. _

The encouragement was almost… like Samson was family. That would be betrayal to the Inquisition. He couldn't _like_ the General, the enemy.

_What would Garrett want…. No, what did mother… what do I want? _

He stepped forward once. Survival was important. So was controlling the lyrium. He was doing it for Isabela and Garret, his only family left. Though if he wasn't going to ever see them again, it seemed counterproductive to be here.

Samson seemed to find something about Carver's expression very amusing, because he shook his head with a smirk, and left without another word.

Carver got to his feet, feeling stupid. Margitte had barely spoken to him when they were training, so he expected the same response now.

Feeling uncomfortable as he did so, Carver crossed the room, ignoring the bustle and conversation from around him and the oppressive noise of Red Templars. If he was going to die here, he should make the most of his limited numbers.

He sat next to Margitte, at the end of the table, and picked up his spoon once again. The bread had soaked through to the bottom, and torn apart, like porridge. She was hunched over, as though in pain, but the expression on her face was empty. She did not acknowledge him.

"Do you like stew?" he wondered, hoping that was stupid enough that she would talk.

Pause.

"Yeah," she answered.

Carver sighed. Even his awkward times in the Blooming Rose weren't as disjointed as this. The acquaintance from the Gallows had been livelier.

"What about you?"

Margitte glanced at him, ever so briefly, but in her eyes it was as though she was asking a different question. He had a million questions, and any of them could have fit her tone of voice.

_Does she recognize me?_ he thought, _Is she trying to ask if I like this Castle?_

Surprisingly, he found his opinion for the stew closely matched his feelings for the place, anyway. "I don't know," he said. He scooped the soggy bread out of his bowl and swallowed it without a care, "What's good about it?"

"It's comfort food," she explained, abandoning her meal for a moment, "It's warm. It reminds me of home."

Carver didn't know why hearing that made him feel homesick. Home didn't exist for him anymore, nor a house. He had no home to long for.

"Yeah," he said, not agreeing, but he didn't want her to know how depressed he felt.

"Want to wash up later?" Margitte asked, glancing at Red Templars that were leaving the hall. Whether this was a suggestion for something else, it did not matter to him anymore. The thought of being in private company of someone familiar was reassuring.

"I'd kill those guys to get time to myself," Carver replied.

He couldn't help but feel slightly less sad when Margitte nudged him under the table with one of her knees.

* * *

"Maker help me," Alistair sighed, leaning against the door. "I can't – I mean, it's for the best, right? The Maker wouldn't put me through this for nothing. It…"

Cole, invisible, crept around near the bed. The Hero of Ferelden, Willow, was standing in the middle of the room.

"Our circumstances are no different to before," she responded, icily, "Taking over for Cullen once his withdrawal becomes too atrocious is the closest you will tread to your previous duties."

"Except Anora is missing, and in pain," Alistair said, hurt increasing with every word, "I'm not stupid. She wouldn't be the type to invent a silver lining in a situation where there isn't any, but… it would still be nice to know that–she was not…oh, you're right again." His expression, which already looked ill, became pastier. "I'm sorry, Willow. At least you're out of that torture chamber, I'm overjoyed for you, really. I'm just… the confirmation that Anora's maybe a week from kneeling over is not comforting. Lucky for you, I suppose. It's almost like the Blight has happened again with demons chasing us. Like we can pretend we're back at the start, where there were no responsibilities besides saving the world - sad that it is a relief in comparison."

"As much as my dishonourable side is tempted by having you to myself, she's the primary."

"To outsiders, yes," Alistair said, "But they -are also- currently gone.'

"I won't let my envy of her overcome me," Willow looked determined, "I'll ask Josephine if I can be with the team aiming to retrieve her- for you. I'll pretend you're fighting beside me."

"How I love you," Alistair mumbled, with a dreamy look in his eyes, "I don't know how I feel about the rest of the plan though. Cullen and Eimear are not good choices to go talk to this Samson person… can we call him a person? A Seeker has better chances of fighting off a red lyrium mastermind."

"They didn't want Seekers involved," Willow said, "Two of them know Samson personally."

"Great. I'm not the expert on anyone in the Inquisition –except you!"

"Gratefully so," Willow said with a smile, "I am going to see if the showers are free."

She left.

_The King is tired_, Cole rationalized, approaching him as Alistair lay down on the bed, bandages visible around his ankles. He made himself visible, "Hello."

Alistair smiled. He was one of the only Inquisition members who didn't jump at the sight of him, "Cole! How are you this evening?"

"B-Better," Cole said, slowly, "My friends…at first I didn't but now… I like that they are with me."

"Helping others is one of those always-wonderful things," Alistair said, "You won't run out of them, that's for sure- even in a semi-peaceful world without a Blight. If King has taught me anything, it's that. Do you want a hug before sleeping?"

"Maybe, yes. Hugs are kind, but not right now," Cole mumbled, "Details, you are missing stories about the Castle."

"You mean… like I forgot something… or you did?"

"I did," Cole said, "I forgot something important. The Grand Enchanter Fiona… she had something to say to you."

Alistair's expression darkened, "Unless it was an apology, Cole, I seriously don't want to know."

Images returned to Cole, "Sh-She did. Her heart is heavy with regret, and guilt. _It was all her fault, _she said. Although, she understands… you won't forgive her, the hurt is so far down inside."

"I've heard worse," Alistair mumbled, more to himself, "I suppose there isn't much chance to accept her apology, is there? I'd much rather hear it from her, no… no, it is one of those irredeemable crimes…. I really couldn't care less if that Fiona met her death tomorrow… or yesterday."

The feeling rumbled, deep and low, like in the crevice of the earth.

Cole started to feel upset again, "This Inquisition is a fire trying to be put out."

Alistair sighed, "Cole, I know it isn't your fault. Of course I'm angry. Wouldn't you be? Knowing that, well, if she wasn't such an idiot, we wouldn't be suffering like this. No one would be. While I'm on the subject, I _can't believe_ everybody else has just forgotten about her. I know I won't be able to even if I tried."

"The others have hope that the Inquisition will get better," Cole said, "they know that Fiona is important, like everyone, she does good, and she makes mistakes, like everyone."

"Yet again the ghost doesn't get it," Alistair mumbled, "Never mind, Cole. I didn't get angry to upset you. I'm just… worried that we are doomed. A 'take a final stand' kind of doomed. Even if we get through all of this, I don't know if I could forgive her then. We are pushed beyond our limits. My wife is either dead or about to die. My mistress, I suppose she's just my girlfriend now – nearly died in the last fight. I know that with wars people are always going to die. I just wish we weren't _all_ going to die. The good people. I don't want the good ones to die, but the Maker's probably gone on a holiday. I wish I had the satisfaction that there is going to be a future at all, peace at some point."

Cole shrunk down. It wasn't nice to see Alistair get angry, "Yes."

"That was all? An apology? I guess it's nice but it won't redeem her mistake."

"She says your mother hopes you find happiness," Cole recollected.

Alistair appeared confused, "I don't think I heard what I thought I just did."

"That is all," Cole said, remembering about what Fiona said, "She knows your mother."

Alistair gave a half laugh, "Oh, Cole. Chances are after all she's been through, she's trying to gain empty sympathy to make herself feel better." He rested up on his elbows. "Interesting story though-where does she supposedly know my mother from?"

"I can't say any more," Cole said, suddenly afraid of the King's vindictiveness.

"Wait, Cole," Alistair tried to sit up, but the pain in his ankles stopped him, "I'm honestly curious, as ready to know as I am to execute her. Can't you tell me? It's just a story. It doesn't matter if it's all a lie."

Cole disappeared and left the room as Alistair attempted to get out of the bed.

"Cole – great…Ouch," the King flinched, and called out louder, "You have a good night without an injury and feelings!" The joking tone disappeared, "I'm not going to forget about this, you know!"

_You have to,_ Cole thought, determined, as he stepped through the door, _your mother told me to be careful._

* * *

"Good evening, Sister Nightingale."

Leliana was torn about answering. How irked she was that Samson was there, but, she wanted to speak to somebody. The silk cloth was long gone, as she'd chewed right through it, might have even swallowed half of it. From spite at Calpernia, or boredom, only the Maker knew which power was stronger.

The door closed and the footsteps drew closer.

The General waited. "You there, Spymaster?"

The man prodded her shoulder. Leliana felt depressed, and the poke only reminded her of how abject she felt and how much she wished she could simply die, but she wasn't allowed to do that.

"Is the sensory deprivation being kind to you?" he inquired.

_Shut up,_ Leliana thought. She wasn't sure how to feel anymore. It felt like she was in limbo between living and the dead. Some days she was deader than alive, and vice versa, but she never chose a side.

"You happy to chat to me, Leliana?"

A long pause… she was too bored to resist. "What?"

The General sat down in front of her, where she was lying on the ground. He could feel the body temperature radiating from him and orientated herself to the sound of his voice.

"I'm curious," He started, "The small amount of red we gave you… did you see anything?"

Leliana assumed the whole point of being force fed lyrium was that it would show her things. However, he sounded absent of judgement.

Samson was close enough that thankfully she didn't have to speak too loud.

"Why does that interest you?"

"It shows its consumers different visions depending on their memories and experiences. Sometimes it's good, sometimes it's wicked, sometimes it's a bunch of arbitrary rubbish." He hesitated, "I am intrigued… for the sake of your head staying on, sister."

It was the first time the Red Templar General had sounded genuinely concerned for her wellbeing. Leliana wasn't sure how to feel about that, if even she was capable of feeling anything anymore.

The enemy was not permitted to _care_ for her.

"Why?"

"Will you tell me what the red showed you?"

_Avoiding the answer, fool_, she scolded.

Biting her lip, Leliana opened her eyes. Samson was peering at the wall, though he was languid and expressionless. If there was some reason for letting her guard down, she wanted Samson to be equally vulnerable. "What does it show you?"

Samson peered at her and gave a wry smile, "See. Told you you're clever."

Leliana would have smiled if she wasn't exhausted and apathetic. He sounded proud of her. It was pleasant to think someone was capable of that, even if it was her enemy… and likely complimenting her to manipulate.

This malicious detail slipped, as his presence was far nicer than any of those sent to torture her.

The General peered at the space next to her, "Can I sit next to you?"

_What for?_ Was Leliana's first thought, but she responded differently, "I don't care. Do as you will."

As nadir as she felt the General crawled past her and sat to her left. Leliana sat up so she wasn't opening herself up to be extra vulnerable.

He let his ankles roll out absently. "The red shows me… the New World, a world covered in green light, destruction and rebirth. Then sometimes… people I've never met. In my dreams they are like friends, but then they disappear. I'm left with nothing every time. Then there's this feeling like I'm falling or disintegrating."

Leliana wasn't sure what to say. She didn't know if she took pleasure in his misfortune or pitied him.

Samson didn't care for the silence, "Now you."

_Yes_. Leliana told herself, _now me. _

She looked down at her hands. It was lucky they weren't bound to the floor as well, but it didn't make her feel any freer.

"I see demons," she recollected, "and innocents dying. I see the Divine's demise. The Chantry in Kirkwall exploding, the Temple of Sacred Ashes as broken stone... I see a world where there is nothing left."

Samson appeared to ponder on the description, "Nothing?"

"Yes," Leliana affirmed. Then she remembered who she was talking to, "but it's your fault. You're the one who gave me the red lyrium. You wanted this to happen to me."

"I don't like hurting others, necessarily," Samson said calmly, "You did this to yourself, Sister Nightingale."

In no state of mind for debates and critical thought, Leliana lacked the clarity to agree or disagree. Instinctively, because she didn't like Samson she said, "You're wrong."

"I gave you the red, yeah," Samson admitted, "but everyone reacts differently. The red feeds off our soul and shows what brews in the deepest parts of our heads, like pulling up secrets from underground. There is a system to it."

"I doubt that," Leliana countered, "What use is there to show people death and hatred? It only creates those very feelings."

"To those who can channel the red's power and control it," Samson ventured, "they can turn the images into motivators. It ceases to hurt them. The side effects are contained."

"I don't believe you," Leliana said, her words slow.

"Why not?"

"People cannot retain their innocence and good will while becoming immune to emotional turmoil."

"I see what you're getting at," Samson said, "but that's only true if people forget who they were before taking it. Sods detached from their emotions can still make kind choices, only if they can hold onto what the emotions felt like and where the ripples of their decisions are likely to go."

"And you have proof of that?" Leliana tested. She'd decided speaking to Samson was dangerous because he was an intelligent person, so she was irritated she couldn't resist. Now, she didn't care anymore. Maybe that was the whole point. She didn't care enough about that either to protest.

"Yes, plenty," Samson said, with a disingenuous smile, "like myself."

Leliana remained silent and struggled to comprehend what Samson could be referring to.

"I don't feel much anymore. Anger, yes, rage, yes… numbness… eh." He shrugged. "You see, Leliana, that is why you can't hurt or manipulate me. That is why you should give up with this stupid tough act you're playing. You can't hurt me. Not a soul, even the most depraved, or the sharpest detail, can hurt me."

The Spymaster wasn't convinced, "What about Calpernia? What about when you laugh or smile?"

Samson grinned. "I use my memories of feelings to imitate, but that's all it is: a lie. I remember who I am and what amuses me and what doesn't. See, I even have you fooled. I've had a long time to teach myself how to behave like 'me'."

"How does that life have any appeal?" Leliana demanded, "What use is the world if one cannot enjoy its wonders?"

"You're assuming the world has anything positive to offer as it is," Samson said, "anyway, you're leading me astray. Don't think I didn't notice. What does the red's pictures do to your Chantry loving heart?"

Leliana didn't want to answer. Despair was the answer, and she did not want that to be.

The General turned to look at her and inspected her expression, "You'd like water or something?"

Leliana felt tears fill her eyes. This wasn't fair. A twisted cruelty existed in her enemy being nice to her. It was worse than all this physiological torture, a poison that was breaking her mind.

_But he gave you the red lyrium on purpose. He is trying to trick you._ She reminded herself. It wasn't that. He wanted her to become a Red Archer or Red Assassin. Right now, she almost didn't care if she did.

"I hate you," she said through her sobs.

Samson chuckled, "Sister, what have I told you about saying that?"

"That our hatred is equally strong for one another."

"There you go," Samson noted, "You know what though? I have a bit of favouritism for you."

Somehow, this wasn't much of a surprise.

"It means little to me," Leliana said, "and I thought you knew nothing of sympathy."

"I can form opinions," Samson said, "I do really hate seeing you like this. It's such a waste." He took a deep breath. "There are Chants around the place. I brought one. Would you like me to read a passage for you?"

He _was_ trying to get under her skin…. but for somebody attempting to do that he was remarkably passive.

_I want to die,_ Leliana thought. Reading out a section would do nothing. She shook her head.

"That's a surprise," Samson said, "I thought you'd love that."

"I know it by heart," Leliana said finally.

"Ah yeah," the General remembered this, "Is there scripture that livens up your soul from in here?"

Leliana glared at him. Samson was _trying_ to feed on her despair. "I know what you are doing. And it is very irritating."

Samson raised an eyebrow and rotated his torso so he was facing her, "Which is?"

"You want to undermine my belief in the Maker to bring me over to your side," Leliana said, "It won't work."

"If you're so convinced, having a chat to me shouldn't be a problem," Samson replied.

Leliana scowled. That in theory should be true…. but she was afraid that Samson was right and the Maker _was_ dead after all.

She wouldn't break.

"Yes," Leliana agreed, "I was only forewarning you so you don't get disappointed."

Samson gave her a knowing look. "Recite, Sister Nightingale."

The woman thought for a few moments. She knew which lines spoke to her the most, but she was no longer certain how to interpret them. In her memories it appeared over and over, and now the red lyrium emphasized it.

"Blessed are the peacekeepers, the lights in the shadow," She whispered, "In their blood the Maker's will is written."

Samson took in a moment to absorb the words. "Why did you pick that one, Leliana?"

Leliana hesitated. It was because of Evelyn. She had told Leliana that she'd be able to find a new purpose with the Inquisition now that the Divine was dead. It was in those early days of Haven that she'd questioned her faith to the Maker and whether worshipping Him meant anything.

She couldn't tell Samson that. That rationale was too easy to pick apart. It fed into all her vulnerabilities and her nightmares.

"Yes?" Samson inquired. "What is so frightening about getting out of this rut? It would be better than in here, right?"

He must know something was wrong. Her silence spoke volumes. Yet she continued to lie. He probably wasn't going to leave her until she told him something.

"No," Leliana sneered. "I will tell you about why I chose the Chant excerpt if you do not pester me with follow up questions."

"Sorry," Samson said, "Not trying to pester, but I'll agree to that."

Leliana suspected he was lying. His aim might not be to harass, but to break her. That was worse.

"After the Conclave I questioned if death and destruction was the Maker's will," she said, carefully, "Who could claim the events of the Conclave were righteous when so many innocent lives were slaughtered, in a place where the Divine stood? And like it was only a cruel joke, he let her die. The Maker asks our worship, and for what? For violence?"

Samson nodded, and seemed to resist asking another question. He crossed his arms.

"The Herald, Evelyn, told me I could find a new purpose that would fulfil the Maker's wishes," Leliana said, and she fell silent for a moment, "but now I don't know. Evelyn is dead. The Maker disposed of her too, the Inquisition and Thedas' only hope – it is mad and it is like a big game to Him."

Only after the conversation did Leliana realize she shouldn't had let slip her fears about the Maker playing a game. Now, however, the emotion of despair and uncertainty had made it slip out.

"The only reason she was a hope is because she had the Anchor," Samson said, "And if the Conclave had gone as it was meant to, maybe lives would have been spared. But now _more_ have to suffer because naysayers got in the way."

The man was implying all of this might not have needed to happen. Perhaps his perception was skewed, or … no, her enemy's ideal wasn't that great.

"Your New World…" Leliana began, "What is it?"

"Corypheus has lived for far longer than anyone should," Samson said, "and whether you come out the other end with the head rattled or not, it comes with knowledge of what the past was like. Go back far enough and it seems apparent to me where humanity fucked up."

"Where?"

"The Chant," Samson said. "Yeah, it's old stuff and there are some good bits, but the stories are not accurate to what really happened. If it could be remade the way it was supposed to be, to what the Chantry is meant to be there for, they'd be more content souls in the world, don't you think?"

She silently agreed. The Chantry did not live up to its true purpose, not anymore, not for many years.

"There was talk on who should take over as Divine," Leliana admitted, not sure if his answer counted as a follow up question.

Samson was quiet for a few seconds, "What would you do if you could change Thedas?"

"I…" Leliana hesitated. She'd given it some thought over the years, and now it was even less certain, but if they were talking of ideals. "I don't believe the Circle of Magi as it is has a use. The mages should be free. Not only them, but nobody should be excluded. That is not the Maker's way. The Chant is supposed to bring people and communities together. Being supportive of one another is a good place to start. From there, I would make other changes, ones I have wanted that for years. There are too many that are harmed by the Circle's ways, and the Chantry's ways especially. This war is proof of that."

Samson smiled. "You're not so much a Chantry worshipper after all."

"No. I worship the Maker, not the Chantry," Leliana said, "That is the same for everyone, or at least most people."

"Why… I mean, that is why I call them Chantry worshippers." Samson said. "Gnarled folk get the two mixed up so easily, and it's not right. The Chantry is content to preach about accepting the broken with open arms, but when it comes to the moment to do so, do they? No. Not as often as they will say."

Leliana was too relieved to feel the shock that the Red Templar General and she were agreeing on something.

"You've got a sharp mind, Spymaster Nightingale, even when tortured," Samson said, "I appreciate that. I tried not to ask questions. I think I did alright? Let me find you a scripture that I like."

He went over to a table in one of the corners of the room and picked up a copy of the Chant. As he returned, Leliana watched bewildered. "I thought you hated it."

"It's like a storybook to me," Samson said, casually, "a shit storybook, but there are good things - wait a moment…" he flicked through the pages. "I forget, see… made fun of it too many times… here we are." He read in an almost calming tone. ""_World-making Glory," I cried out in sorrow, "How shall your children apology make? We have forgotten, in ignorance stumbling, Only a Light in this darken'd time breaks. Call to Your children, teach us Your greatness. What has been forgotten has not yet been lost._"

Leliana liked this passage, she realized. It reminded her that the Maker was good, but those who follow him were not always so.

"My Clerics taught me that the Maker abandoned us, but in the Lothering Chantry I felt the Maker's love and acceptance for all people. I couldn't believe he had left. Perhaps he had made himself visible to me and my Lay Sisters alone, for we were carrying out his words to do good," Leliana wondered. "I do not think the Maker wishes to hate us, but clearly, you think he did leave, or he is dead."

"For exactly the reason you say," Samson said, "If He did speak to me for doing good, I never heard it. He didn't intervene with anything. I mean… why do you think He let you be put in here?"

Leliana hoped that maybe she still had a purpose, though she wasn't sure what it was anymore. She felt slightly relieved. Ambiguity of the Maker aside, it was good that Samson had not been difficult.

And for some reason, the fact their goals were similar did not feel as terrifying as it should be. For a man who lacked emotion his expressions seemed genuine. Perhaps he had mastered pretending to be 'Samson'.

She needed to remember not to break. The General wouldn't be here forever and her torture would go on. In the back of her mind, she felt that Samson was not as hateful as she once believed.

"You try and try, yet I continue to develop no desire to tell you or anybody about the Inquisition," Leliana said finally, "and I also despise the idea of the Red Templars. I will remain here as I am. Do you feel accomplished?"

"Bit," Samson said, and then, annoyed with himself he moved closer to Leliana so he could lean against her. Maybe in previous circumstances she would push him away, but she was so weak, all she managed was speech. Against her ear he said, "I still don't get why you're doing this to yourself. You can do better than this and you know it."

"…Being _better_ than this does not involve joining you," Leliana said coolly.

Too absent in morale, she wasn't able to conceptualize why she thought Samson's methods were warped.

The General growled. "Yeah, but why are you being stubborn? Once you break it will be hard to put the pieces back together. It might even be impossible."

Where had this sudden burst of frustration had come from? Leliana was intrigued. "If you care for my welfare as you say, then why don't you free me? Why can't I wander around the Castle like when I got here, or even help? I could do menial tasks, or keep an eye on Redcliffe's Chantry."

"If I did, it would cause a lot of fuss," Samson said, "I'm not the authority in this Castle. I need to run it past a few people."

"Like Calpernia," Leliana pointed out.

Samson didn't flinch at the mention, "And Alexius."

"Not Corypheus?"

"He trusts us three to deal with prisoners fine without asking," Samson admitted, "If an opportunity arises I'll see if I can let you have a little freedom, but by no means are you going to be running around here unattended." He rose to his feet. "I'm pleased we had this talk, Nightingale. I don't like leaving you alone here, not when your potential is like a forest about to burst into flame."

Leliana half smiled. "Then grant me freedom."

"No." He paused. "But I can do plenty of other _innocent_ favours for you, if you need it."

Leliana blushed. A 'favour' was a very peculiar choice of word, though she wasn't sure if she was jumping to conclusions or not. "What is your idea of innocent favours?"

"I said if you wanted me to," Samson reiterated, "By the Black City, you women always think I'm out to get you."

"Because you are," Leliana said, "And is that ethical given you're a General?"

"Torturing you isn't ethical either," Samson said, "Which I don't do, but still. I'm talking about hugs and… I don't know, just being nice. You can think of the pure hearted stuff. That's not what I'm good at."

The Spymaster hesitated. The General must be really invested in her… it seemed confusing. Hugs sounded…. Good?

_Maker, why?_ Leliana asked Him, _This is another trick._

"My legs have been cramping for days," Leliana said, "but I suspect you are clueless on how to fix that."

"There are ways, but it could be withdrawal from the red or the lack of food," Samson admitted. "I'd stay for longer but I got to work." He left, and Leliana thought she heard him say: "Don't break too quick."

If the Maker no longer cared for her, it was nice to think maybe someone did-one of the horrid excuses for filth who desired her torture and wasn't going to put in the effort necessary to change her circumstances.

Self-loathing infected every vessel in her starved body as images flashed across her eyes.

* * *

_Authors Notes:_ Thanks to Flaminea for proof reading. I didn't realize I was spelling Nightingale wrong until now. Sorry to those who were cringing at the mistake.

This story is going on a hiatus until I've made more progress in my Samson origin fic. I don't want to create continuity problems and this story is going to spoil tons of it in the following chapters. Thanks for everyone who has been following along. I've got chapters drafted ahead so this won't be disappearing forever.

Reviews are much appreciated.


End file.
